


To Which Fate Binds Us

by days_of_storm



Series: The Eye of the Beholder Series - Book I [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 75,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two near fatal run ins with Jim Moriarty, John decides that they need a break; or maybe the opposite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> This is part 4/5 of the Eye of the Beholder Series  
> Thanks for reading.   
> Comments are very much appreciated.
> 
> ( PS: thanks for everybody's encouragement! And thanks to Verity for the title of this...and countless other things <3 )

"John?"

John felt a tingle in his spine, and then in his left hand.

"Jo-hon."

Why was Sherlock so impatient? It was still early and he felt that he needed to sleep for much longer than he had. His arm had fallen asleep as he had rested his head on it when he had crashed last night. He pulled it arm away from under his head and pushed his face into the pillow. Lovely, soft, smelling of Sherlock – pillow; perfection. With a small smile he remembered that he had fallen asleep to Sherlock's lips on his arse. A familiar stirring in his groin made him sigh deeply. But really, he was so very tired, he couldn't do anything else but just lie there and hope to fall asleep again.

"John!" even less patient this time. That was when John could place the tingle on his spine. Sherlock's fingers were very lightly tapping up and down, counting his vertebrae for all he knew. Then he realised that Sherlock was actually using his arse as a pillow. How he had not realised that before was beyond him, but now that he knew, he felt the pressure, the curls against his skin, the breath streaming over the small of his back. He shuddered.

Sherlock smiled and lifted his head. "Finally."

"Don't move," John mumbled into the pillow.

"What was that?"

John dragged his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of Sherlock, who lay curled up next to him, his hand still on John's back, but his face nowhere near his arse.

"Don't move," he said, sounding drowsy and a bit sheepish.

Sherlock smiled and settled down again, pressing a kiss to his skin.

"I think I need more sleep." John wasn't sure whether he actually wanted to, and considering that the weight of Sherlock's head now pressed his erection into the mattress, he wasn't sure if he could actually fall asleep again.

"You said you wanted me to wake you up early."

"Did I?" Had he? Probably. He couldn't really remember anything at all other than that he had been exhausted and pretty much passed out as soon as he had hit the mattress. And the kiss to his arse. He remembered that. 

"You did." Sherlock's hand moved up to his neck, pushing his fingers into John's hair. John sighed. It was incredibly good to feel Sherlock's fingers in his hair, gently massaging his scalp. It relaxed him instantly.

"John?" Sherlock was clearly impatient, and John was sure that he did not want John to go back to sleep. "I give you ten minutes and then I'll come and wake you up ... properly."

John nodded, too tired to get excited about the 'properly'. When Sherlock got up, he felt cold again, even though for all he knew he had spent the night completely uncovered except for Sherlock's face and hands.

It was much later when he woke up again, finding that Sherlock had covered him with a blanket. He was sitting cross legged on the bed, reading, wearing his dressing gown but nothing underneath. The heating was on and the room comfortably warm. Sherlock's hair was wet from the shower. 

John stretched and Sherlock looked up from the book. Instead of sitting up, John crawled the few inches until he could wrap his arms around Sherlock's middle from behind. He knew that with minimal effort he could move around him and bury his face in Sherlock's lap, but he wasn't sure that he was up for something so rogue.

"Hey," he still sounded sleepy, but he felt much more awake now.

"Hey," Sherlock replied, smiling. "Tea?"

"What, you made tea?"

"Yeah, an hour ago, but it's cold now. I can make you a fresh one."

John smiled and slowly pushed himself up so that he could wrap himself entirely around Sherlock. "Thanks, but no," he said, pressing his face against Sherlock's shoulder. "Just stay here for a while."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm on holiday, I'm not going anywhere."

John giggled, causing Sherlock to put away the book and to take hold of John's hands on his chest. "I am," he affirmed, leaning back into John.

"Did Mycroft talk some sense into you?" John stretched and kissed Sherlock's neck.

"No," Sherlock answered, but John could tell he was lying.

"I'll go and take a shower."

"Hurry up, will you? I've been waiting a long time for you to wake up."

John grinned and detached himself from Sherlock who turned around so that he could kiss him properly. John felt a bit self-conscious about his morning breath, but when Sherlock licked at the corner of his mouth, John felt fairly sure that Sherlock couldn't care less. And then he remembered that Sherlock had kissed him multiple times after he had been freshly fished out of the river the night before and he hadn't cared either. Maybe Sherlock's priorities really got mixed up when it came to John. He couldn't help but smile widely, and Sherlock grinned back.

He did hurry and walked back into the bedroom still wet, half expecting Sherlock to still sit there and read, but he was gone. John sat down on the bed, towel wrapped around his waist, and examined his right hand. The cut had closed, but he would put a new plaster on it, just to make sure.

He walked into his own room, looking for his medical kit when Sherlock showed up in the door, holding a cup of steaming tea.

John grinned at him, feeling slightly light headed. "I can't believe that you did that."

"Did what? The tea? Oh, come on, John, I am not completely inept."

"No," John wanted to make sure that Sherlock didn't misunderstand him, but at the same time he still wasn't sure whether he should introduce the word adorable to Sherlock. "It's just incredibly sweet of you. Uncharacteristically sweet that is."

Sherlock grinned and stepped into the room. "Do you need help?" he motioned towards John's hand.

"If you want to ...," John pulled out a plaster from his bag and handed it to Sherlock, who put the tea down on the nightstand.

Sherlock carefully drew his finger over the tender skin before he applied the plaster. Then he looked at John with a serious expression. "Would you touch me, now that you can?"

John smiled and felt his heart flutter. Yes, adorable was definitely the word for this version of Sherlock.

John nodded, but stood up and walked to the door. Just as Sherlock wanted to protest, he closed the door and leaned against it. If Sherlock really was on holiday, and had already proven several times this morning that his defences were very low, he would savour that.

"Where do you want me to touch you?" he asked, trying to sound calm and in control. It would be very easy to slip and fall with this approach, but he felt that Sherlock might enjoy this as much as he would.

Sherlock blushed. He actually blushed; from his chest up to his cheeks and all the way to his hairline. John had to fight very hard to stay calm. He casually walked over to the bed, watching as Sherlock sat down, looking up at him expectantly, but obviously not self-conscious enough to let the blush distract him. "Everywhere," he said, his voice very low.

John took the mug and sipped on the tea, making sure to lick his lips afterwards. "That is very vague, don't you think?"

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "Do you really want me to tell you every single place that I want you to touch me?"

John smiled and put the mug down again. "Yes."

Sherlock exhaled shakily. "Okay."

"Lie down," John interrupted him before he could start telling him where he wanted John's hands on him.

Sherlock did, but then he sat up again and pushed the dressing gown over his shoulders. Good thinking, John thought with a smile. He moved back on the bed and closed his eyes. John had to chuckle at not having to tell him to do it.

"My feet," Sherlock said, sounding calm, "start with my feet."

"Right," John grinned and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, towel still around his hips. He gently took Sherlock's right foot into his hand, bending his knee a little so that he could comfortably hold it. Then he started to run his fingertips over the back of Sherlock's foot, watching in amazement how his toes stretched in reaction to his touch. When he pressed his thumb into the span of his foot, the toes curled and when he very lightly ran his fingers over the sole, Sherlock grunted and half-heartedly tugged at his foot. "Definitely ticklish," John concluded, pressing a kiss to the foot. He repeated his action with the left foot, finding that it was even more responsive to his feathery touches. He kissed Sherlock's ankles, biting now and then, drawing small delighted noises from Sherlock. Right, about that. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock sounded very relaxed.

"Could you do me a favour?"

"Anything," he said with a smile, but then he lifted his head and raised an eyebrow, clearly realising that John wouldn't bother asking if it was just something trivial. "Well, I'm retracting that statement. It really depends."

John chuckled and kissed his knee. "Well, I wonder what you thought I was going to ask."

Sherlock dropped his head again. "I am not telling you," he said with a cheeky smile, "but please, do tell me what I can do for you."

"Don't hold back," John simply said, kissing Sherlock's other knee.

"Don't hold back what?" Sherlock asked, waving an arm around to emphasise the vagueness of that request.

John grinned. "Just do what you feel like doing. Don't try to be quiet, don't try to stay calm, just go with it, okay?"

Sherlock dropped his arm, staying silent for a while, so John continued. "I know that you have tried to stay calm and in control previously. But I want to know what you are like when you really let go."

"I can try," he said quietly, and John knew that it might actually be a greater challenge than he had realised. Well, he would take whatever Sherlock was willing to give him.

"Thank you," he smiled, moving to run his hands over Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock spread them to give John better access and when John started to kiss his way upwards, he could hear his breathing becoming laboured. He enjoyed feeling the texture of Sherlock's soft skin under his hands, gently pressing his thumb into his flesh, feeling the lean muscles tighten and just loving the fact that he was allowed to touch him like this.

When he reached his groin, John avoided touching his slowly swelling cock. Instead, he kissed along the line where his leg met his hip, drawing a whimper from Sherlock, followed by a groan when he bit his hip bone. Sherlock's skin was almost white and John wondered whether this part of Sherlock had ever seen the sun. He grinned and nibbled on his skin, drawing his hand over Sherlock's thigh, eventually pushing his leg up until his knee was at his shoulder. Then he experimentally drew his finger along the inside of his thigh until he came to his anus.

In the military he had done check-ups. He knew how things worked and he knew exactly how to find the prostate. That had been the point of the check-ups, really. He also knew that the feeling it produced was extraordinary, so extraordinary in fact that most men dreaded the procedure. John couldn't quite imagine doing it without a glove and the thought of anything more than two fingers made him uncomfortable, but maybe that would go away once they experimented with it.

"John, are you okay?" Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbows, watching John as he had halted in his movement.

John looked at him and then shrugged. "I'm just not sure how to properly do this."

Sherlock smiled. "You don't have to do anything that you don't feel comfortable doing. You know that, right?"

John nodded. "But I'm not sure whether I am actually uncomfortable with this. Are you?"

"Depends on what you want to do."

"Give you pleasure," John answered, feeling himself blush.

"You're doing fairly well I would say, but if you think of ... entering me, I think you should use some sort of lubricant."

"That's the part that I am not sure about," John admitted, drawing his finger carefully across his perineum, making Sherlock squirm.

"I'm fine with whatever you do," Sherlock clearly felt the need to reassure him that he would let him know if he hurt him or made him uncomfortable in any way.

John looked at him, repeating the movement with his finger, a little more pressure this time. Sherlock squirmed again. "Have you ever had a prostate examination?"

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "I didn't know you were into role playing games," he grinned.

"I'm not," John felt the need to defend himself, "I just want to know if you know what it feels like."

"It's been a few years, but I remember it being quite dreadful."

John frowned and carefully applied some more pressure.

"But then again," Sherlock continued, his voice slightly shaky, "you weren't my doctor."

"Right," he smiled, "do we have something?"

"Vaseline?"

"That's what I used for the check-ups back in Afghanistan."

"John," Sherlock frowned as if not sure how to say it. "I do appreciate the thought but we do have time, and I would like it if you would ... actually touch me everywhere before you ...," he waved his hand around again.

"Sure," John grinned, feeling both relieved and disappointed. "Turn around."

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked at him with slight confusion.

"Turn around."

Sherlock pushed himself up and then flipped over, wriggling his arse while he grinned at John over his shoulder. John laughed and playfully smacked him. The grunt that came from Sherlock surprised them both. With arched eyebrows, John carefully placed his hand on the spot where he had hit Sherlock and squeezed. Sherlock shifted, burying his face in the pillow. He had obviously not expected to be so responsive to John's touch.

John grinned and moved to kneel over him, shedding the towel and dropping it on the floor. Then he ran his hands from the back of Sherlock's thighs upwards and squeezed again. This time the pillow did not suffice to stifle the moan. John was amazed and decided that now was definitely the time for some teasing. Using only his fingertips, he drew small circles on Sherlock's skin, loving the shudder that ran though the body beneath him. He pushed down harder, feeling the muscles clench under his palms and moved up until he pressed down on the small of his back. He literally took Sherlock's breath away and a moment later Sherlock pushed his face to the side, inhaling sharply.

"Do that again," he pleaded and John felt immediately aroused just by the tone of his voice. "Do what again?" he asked, intending to make Sherlock suffer a bit for his pleasure.

For a second he thought Sherlock would just turn around again and take matters into his own hands, so he tightened the grip he had on him and pressed his knees closer together. Sherlock grunted and pushed himself up on his elbows. John could only stare at the graceful curve of his back, the way the muscles stood out more prominently now, his shoulder blades sharp under his skin. He dropped his head forward, so all John saw of it were the sharp bump of the vertebrae in his neck and a few curls of dark hair. His eyes followed his spine down to the small of his back where two dimples were more visible than ever. He hadn't realised how endearing he found them, but now that they were standing out against the pale skin, he found that he was utterly in love with them. And then, there was that arse.

"Sherlock," he said a bit breathlessly, "you have the most beautiful arse I have ever seen."

That had Sherlock laughing, his whole body shaking and John was indeed grateful for the man below him who managed to make him forget everything that had been going on before. "I mean it, though," he insisted, experimentally pushing his thumbs along the deep lines above his buttocks towards his hips only to run his hands down and squeeze again. Sherlock's breath hitched and John decided that he wanted to see how Sherlock would react if he kissed him. He knew he was ticklish and he would have to be careful about that, but he loved the challenge.

Moving down Sherlock's body until he was kneeling over his calves, he placed his hands to both sides of Sherlock's hips and leaned down, kissing the small of his back. The moan made him smile and for a moment he had a hard time doing anything else than smile against the heated skin under his lips. But then he kissed his way down, feeling Sherlock shudder underneath him. When he playfully bit a buttock, listening to Sherlock's grunt and just knowing that he was hard but unable to do anything about it, John realised that Sherlock had given himself to him completely. He trusted him with everything he had. There was no holding back, no snippy remarks, no deduction that would come in the way now.

For a moment he was overwhelmed with love for him and he knew that now that he had allowed himself to feel so much for Sherlock, he would never be able to go back. Nobody had ever gotten to him the way Sherlock had and he knew that nobody else ever would.

Sherlock turned his head to see why he had stopped and frowned. "Are you alright?"

John looked at him, unable to speak, fighting down the tears that suddenly blurred his vision. He could just make out the smile that spread over Sherlock's features. "It's not _that_ beautiful," he chided him playfully, shaking his head.

John laughed and the tears splashed onto Sherlock's skin. With a sniff, John wiped them away and then leaned forward so that he was lying on top of Sherlock and kissed him. It must have been somewhat uncomfortable for Sherlock, but he happily kissed him back.

"I love you. I don't understand why I hadn't realised that sooner, but I know now. I am sure."

Sherlock smiled and took John's hand, pulling it around himself until it came to rest over his heart. He didn't need words to express what he felt and John pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the strong heartbeat against his palm and his ear.

After a few minutes of just lying there, breathing and feeling in love, he lifted his head and reclaimed his hand. "Back to your arse," he announced with a grin, making Sherlock chuckle. He pushed himself up and resumed his sitting position, leaning forward again to kiss and bite and lick Sherlock until he started to whimper, something that turned John on more than he was willing to admit.

"John," Sherlock eventually lifted his head from the pillow. "John, please."

"What do you want?" John knew that Sherlock wanted him to move on, wanted to feel him touch the rest of his body, but he really enjoyed this and he was sure that he could make him come just by keeping up his gentle teasing.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, trying to regain some control. "Back, shoulders, neck, arms, hands."

John chuckled. "Okay, I think I can do that." He leaned down again and started to lick his way up Sherlock's spine. He could feel him pressing his groin into the mattress, trying to find friction but not daring to actually do anything more than that. John smiled again and moved up until he was kneeling over Sherlock's arse. For a minute he was breathless, imagining making love to him like that. His hands came to rest on Sherlock's hips and he squirmed, causing John to tickle him just for a second. The impact was rather impressive. Sherlock arched up, breathless laughter bubbling up from deep inside him, his arms trying to take hold of John's to pull them away from him. When John stopped, they were both breathing hard.

"Definitely ticklish," John announced with a grin.

"If you ever use that against me I will have to kill you," Sherlock mumbled against the pillow. John laughed. "Your list is getting quite long. And I don't think that threatening to kill me will actually be very effective, because I know that you wouldn't."

"Right," Sherlock propped his head up on his hand. "I'll think of something more effective then. How about ..."

"Sherlock," John interrupted him, his hands coming to rest on his hips yet again, "before you start, let me just remind you that things like not eating, not sleeping and not talking to me cannot be used as punishment, because you do those things anyway." Sherlock inhaled and opened his mouth to speak, but John wasn't done. "And I know that you would not manage to maintain a no touching rule as punishment, no matter how determined you might think you can be."

Sherlock sighed and waited for John to go on. When nothing else followed he said, "well, we'll see about that."

"Alright," John smiled and gently poked him in the side, causing Sherlock to grunt and squirm under him. Yes, having Sherlock at his mercy was definitely something that he enjoyed immensely. "John!" he sounded annoyed, but John could hear the smile.

"Yes?"

Sherlock didn't answer but stretched out on the bed, offering his back to him. So he went on with his exploration.

He ran his hands along his spine and across his shoulderblades. When he started to massage his shoulders, he could feel Sherlock's hips move underneath him. His breath grew laboured and eventually he started moaning, causing John to stop and take hold of his own erection, if only to cause some friction for himself. "Fuck," he groaned, causing Sherlock to move faster underneath him. John knew that if Sherlock kept doing that he would just come on the sheets and he would probably follow soon after and somehow it seemed too much of a waste. He let go of himself and moved off Sherlock, who grunted in frustration at the missing pressure that had helped him cause friction from above.

"Turn around," John ordered, causing Sherlock to stop moving. "I want to touch you."

"No," Sherlock moaned, clearly fighting with himself.

"Okay." John knelt next to Sherlock on the bed, watching him as he lay there, unmoving. "What do you want me to do?"

"Give me a minute," Sherlock sighed deeply and buried his face in the pillow. Again, John was overwhelmed with affection for him and he lay down next to him, running his fingers through his hair. Just the feeling of those curls between his fingers made his heart ache. He was so glad to be alive and to finally use his hands again and so fortunate to be allowed to do this to this extraordinary man.

Eventually Sherlock moved his head and faced John, a frown expressing his frustration. "I'm not doing too well, am I?"

John didn't quite know what he meant. "Sherlock, this is not about doing anything well."

"But if I really let go, like you asked of me ...," he didn't finish that thought and John finally understood what this was about. Sherlock was pressuring himself into trying to let go when he clearly wanted to hang on for longer. He moved closer to kiss him, his fingers still in Sherlock's hair.

"Don't think about it, okay? Just do what feels good and tell me what you need. And if what you want and what your body wants are two different things, just do whatever you feel like doing."

"I don't usually listen to my body, but right now it is definitely hard to not to." He bit his lower lip and closed his eyes as if looking at John confused him even more. "I'm just afraid that if I let go, I won't be able to go back anymore."

John smiled and drew his fingernails along Sherlock's scalp until his hand came to rest on his neck where he gently teased the soft hair, watching as goose bumps spread across Sherlock's skin.

"Don't worry about that. It's not going to alter the way you function. You know how it works, scientifically speaking, I mean. So you will know that you can always choose to stay in control, but you can also choose to let go. It will only last as long as you let it."

He opened his eyes again, the frown slowly giving way to a calmer expression. "And you're here."

"I'm here," he affirmed, smiling and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Okay," Sherlock inhaled, pushing his body up on his elbows again. "Can you go back to my shoulders?"

John smiled and kissed his shoulder and then moved up. This time he knelt next to Sherlock, and even though this position was less comfortable than sitting on him had been, he was sure that it was easier for Sherlock not to be too distracted by it. He reminded himself that Sherlock was not used to being touched like this, that he knew nothing about giving way to the waves of pleasure that would cross his plans sooner or later anyway. He didn't know that it really did not matter when he came and how and why, and that there was nothing to be ashamed or scared of. Kissing Sherlock's right shoulder blade he realised that Sherlock wasn't the only one who needed to be reassured of that.

He let his hands wander over Sherlock's shoulders, pushing down, hearing the air leaving his lungs. His thumbs worked their way up Sherlock's neck into his hair. He felt how tense he still was and remembered that despite everything that had been going on, Sherlock had been worried about him for the better part of the past week and he hadn't really been given the chance to relax. He also knew that they needed to talk about what had happened after he had fallen into the river, and maybe, just maybe, Sherlock's tense muscles stemmed from his need to keep it in, to not talk about it and spoil their intimate moment. He had said he was on a holiday, and John was fairly sure that he didn't do such things; so maybe he was trying to win time, to distance himself from whatever had happened.

"John?"

"I'm sorry." He smiled, but he felt a little sad that even now Sherlock noticed that he was thinking about something other than about the here and now.

"Lie on me again." He sounded somewhat shy.

"What?" John didn't quite know what Sherlock meant.

"Like before, when you kissed me. Lie on me, it felt good. It felt safe."

John blinked a few times but the decided that if Sherlock wanted him to do that, he would. He pushed his hands along Sherlock's arms until he reached his hands while he lowered himself on Sherlock. It felt silly, but at the same time very intimate and rather lovely. He intertwined their fingers and tried to ignore the feeling of his erection trapped between their bodies. "Okay?"

"Perfect," Sherlock said, sounding content and a little sleepy.


	2. Chapter Two

John relaxed instantly. It was as if Sherlock had known exactly how to calm both of them down; how to take them from desperate to aroused and yet contented. Sherlock's thumbs were gently rubbing against his own, his heartbeat slow and steady now and his breathing deep and calm, even with John's weight on top of him.

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

He couldn't say anything; he was not even sure why he had said his name. With a smile he pressed his face against Sherlock's neck, feeling his curls tickle his forehead. "Could you maybe turn around?"

Sherlock sighed, but it wasn't his usually annoyed sigh. No, this sigh was distinctly happy. He stretched out his fingers to free John's hands from his grasp and John pushed himself up high enough so that Sherlock could turn around underneath him. As soon as Sherlock was on his back, John reattached himself, making Sherlock giggle and wrap his arms around him.

"You know, when I came back from Canada, I so badly wanted you to touch me," Sherlock admitted with a small smile. John raised an eyebrow and kissed his throat, smiling as Sherlock swallowed underneath his lips. "I'm glad you waited," Sherlock continued, making John wonder why he brought it up now.

"Why?" He felt his heart speed up just by thinking of that kiss they had shared and the first obvious confrontation with Sherlock's arousal.

"Because it meant more that way."

John didn't quite understand what he meant with that, but if that was how he felt, he would certainly not try to talk him out of it.

"But it might have kept you from having the nightmare," Sherlock continued wistfully. "I hope you will never have a dream like that again."

John remained silent, his lips still attached to Sherlock's throat. He knew the nightmares wouldn't stop, but he loved Sherlock for his words.

It was strange to be in this in between state. They were both still aroused, but neither of them felt impatient to do anything about it. For all he knew he could fall asleep like this.

"Am I too heavy for you?" he asked, wanting to make sure that Sherlock was as comfortable as possible, considering he was carrying his whole weight.

"No, I like you like this. Like I said, it makes me feel safe."

John pushed his hands into Sherlock's hair. He could understand why Sherlock ruffled his own hair when he was frustrated or bored. If he had hair like this he would constantly touch it. Well, if Sherlock wouldn't be too annoyed by it, he might just do that anyway.

"Are we going to do something about ... you know ..." John pushed his hips playfully against Sherlock's.

"Hmm," was the moaned answer, and he could feel both of them growing completely hard again.

"Sherlock, you know that I haven't had sex this frequently in ... years, really."

Sherlock grinned and kissed his forehead just to drop his head back in breathless laughter.

"What?" John asked, propped his chin up on Sherlock's collar bone right next to the love bite, eyeing him suspiciously from below. He really did like to feel Sherlock laugh like this while he was completely attached to him.

"I don't know. This doesn't seem too high a frequency. But then again, I am not quite familiar with any statistics on the sexual activities of a relatively new couple. Not do I have a lot of personal experience to compare yours with."

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock, who wouldn't stop smiling.

"What?" he asked again.

I'm happy, I guess."

John smiled and frowned at the same time. "Well, I'm glad that you are."

"Are you? Happy, I mean?"

"Of course I am, you daft bugger."

"Interesting choice of words," Sherlock replied with a grin, moving his hands to John's arse.

John just grinned and playfully bit his chin. "So, anything you want me to do? Any more body parts to touch?"

"Well, I guess I would like for you to ...," he bit his lip, knowing that John was enjoying this immensely, "you know ..."

"Yes?"

"I want your hands on ..." The blush was back. John almost couldn't believe it. Sherlock always said what he meant. He did not get embarrassed and he certainly had no problems expressing himself when he wanted anything, especially when it was John that he wanted it from.

"Sherlock," he pushed himself up with both hands but pressed his hips down, blinking rapidly a few times to stay focused while Sherlock shuddered underneath him. "I know this might be a bit of a turn off for you, but I really need to say this to you."

Sherlock looked at him sceptically; clearly unsure of what he was going to tell him. John did not give him the chance to guess. "You are incredibly adorable sometimes. And I mean it. I have never met anyone who is as utterly adorable as you are." He couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's blank expression.

It took him exactly three seconds to process what John had just said. His eyebrows moved very close together and his narrowed eyes would have made John uncomfortable in any other situation, but not now; not when a single well executed roll of his hips made Sherlock lose focus, if only for a second.

"I am not," he protested, managing to sound offended.

"Yes, you are. You can protest all you want but it's not something you can control. I know you try to not be like that most of the time, but recently you have been so very adorable that I can barely take it."

"John," Sherlock whined, obviously adamant in wanting to prove him wrong but achieving the opposite. "I am not _adorable_." Stubborn now, John thought while he shook his head grinning.

"No? Not even a little? Because I could have sworn that just a second ago ..."

"No." Sherlock replied, pressing his lips together in a futile attempt to look affronted. His dimples deepened instead.

John raised both eyebrows and bit his lower lip in order not to burst out laughing. "No?" he asked again when he trusted his voice enough.

"John, stop that." He knew Sherlock would have crossed his arms in front of his chest had they not rested on his arse. Apparently, Sherlock wasn't upset enough to stop touching him just yet.

"You know," he started carefully, trying to make Sherlock see that it was nothing to be ashamed of, "it's actually one of the things I like most about you."

Sherlock clearly had not expected that. His expression reflected his confusion and he was obviously intrigued despite himself.

"I am not," he tried again, sounding unsure now, re-evaluating his opinion with the help of this new information.

John smiled and leaned down to kiss him, but Sherlock moved his head so that he kissed his chin instead of his lips. "I am distinctly not adorable, or cute, or whatever other terms you might come up with."

"Okay," John said, clearly meaning the opposite.

"Okay," Sherlock replied, his okay sounding very final. "Now stop grinning and touch me."

John laughed and moved his hips again, watching in fascination as Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed.

"Is gorgeous okay with you, then?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again, one eyebrow slowly arching up. "It might be," he said, cocking his head to the side as if considering whether his answer was enough.

"Well, you are," John said, and this time Sherlock let him kiss him on the mouth.

When Sherlock squeezed his buttocks, John grunted into the kiss and automatically started moving. Sherlock let him do that for the better part of a minute, watching his face intently all the while. When it got too much for him he rolled them over and suddenly John found himself on his back and Sherlock on top of him. Just when he wanted to draw him closer, Sherlock moved away, lying on his side next to John, his arm thrown over John's chest.

"Touch me," he whispered, and John's heart fluttered.

"Okay," he answered, sounding a little hoarse, which made Sherlock smile. Using his right arm and hand to stabilise himself, he licked the palm of his left. Sherlock watched him, holding his breath. When John's hand moved to take hold of him, he released it in a shuddering sigh.

John smiled at the heat in his hand. These past days had been full of first times, and while he had not particularly enjoyed being stuck in that deserted elevator shaft or jumping into the Thames, he did enjoy every minute of exploration with Sherlock. And finally, finally he felt him properly. He wrapped his fingers around him, tugging playfully, gasping when Sherlock grunted and rocked into his touch. He started to move his hand up and down, finding it hard to adjust to the unfamiliar angle at first, but after a while he found out how to pull and twist his hand in just the right way to make Sherlock utter little grunts. Every now and then he brought his hand up to lick it, making sure that he could move easily over Sherlock's heated skin.

Eventually, Sherlock started to breathe harder, pressing his forehead against John's shoulder. His hands balled into fists as if he was afraid he might hurt John if he held on to him. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" he pressed his lips against John's arm, trying to keep himself from helplessly gasping.

"Look at me," John ordered, making Sherlock groan.

"I don't think I can," he answered breathlessly.

"Trust me, you can." John really wanted to see Sherlock's face and look into his eyes when he came, because he hadn't had the chance yet, not really, not up close.

He pushed Sherlock onto his back, and pressing his own erection against Sherlock's thigh, he started to move his hand faster. At this angle it was much easier to glide up and down, and he had to remind himself to look at Sherlock's face and not his cock as to actually be able to see Sherlock when he came.

Even though Sherlock tried to keep calm, still trying to hold back, he was clearly not in control anymore and so he moaned loudly when John changed his pace, and shouted when he ran his thumb over his head, and John was sure that if he stopped now, Sherlock wouldn't even be able to complain about it.

And then he could see that Sherlock was close. His pupils were dilated, he was breathing even faster, a flush spreading over his cheeks and chest, and he had a hard time keeping his eyes open. If only he would be hungry afterwards, John would have been right in all respects in their conversation the day before. He grinned at Sherlock, who answered him by smiling the widest and happiest smile that John had ever seen on him. Blissful, John thought. Good god, Sherlock looked blissful and it was his doing.

He felt him buck up into his hand, sharp gasps for air following the sudden movement and, trying to keep his eyes trained on John, Sherlock came. He blinked rapidly and John could see him fight for control. When he moved his hand again, just a bit, gently rubbing his thumb over his heated skin, Sherlock inhaled deeply and let out a shuddering sigh.

"S' good," he said, the blissful smile returning after it had given way to an expression that almost pushed John over the edge without any conscious action on Sherlock's side. If he ever looked at him like that when they were somewhere outside of the bedroom, and, god forbid, not alone, John wouldn't be able to guarantee for anyone's safety.

"Was it?" he asked, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

Sherlock just nodded and then kissed him back. Just as John let himself be pushed on his back, he could feel Sherlock's hand on him. He had not expected for it to feel so very good. Sherlock didn't even get to start stroking him, because as soon as he started moving his hand, John came with a surprised shout. Sherlock watched his face closely and leaned back in to kiss him once more. John was breathless, but he did not want to stop kissing Sherlock. He felt light headed and happy and warm all over.

When Sherlock moved away he felt immediately cold; not physically, but on a different level. He was just about to demand for Sherlock to come back and kiss him some more when he placed his left hand on John's cheek, his thumb gently stroking his skin. "I love you, John Watson. I never thought that I would say this to anyone, ever, but it's true. You make me feel like this and it is scary like nothing I have ever known, but it also feels so ...," he was fighting to find the exact word to express his emotion.

"Good?" John tried to help, his voice shaky.

"No, yes, I mean, it does feel good, but it also feels _right_." He smiled, proud to have found the right word for what he wanted to say. If this happy pride wasn't the definition of adorable, John didn't know what was.

"I think we both need to shower again," Sherlock then said, lifting his right hand to his face, inspecting John's come a little closer.

"You will not look at that through your microscope, will you?" John commented, somehow dreading that this was exactly what Sherlock had planned.

"It would be interesting to analyse the consistency depending on the time of day, intensity of orgasm and nutrition ..."

"No," John interrupted him. "You will not do that."

Sherlock grinned and gave him a quick kiss before he fluidly moved off the bed and wandered off towards the bathroom. John grinned as he sat up. Yes, Sherlock's arse was decidedly gorgeous.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments = <3

Sherlock was quick and came back naked and wet, picking up John's towel, and, wrapping it around his hips, he made his way downstairs.

John realised that he should probably get up now, but he felt that being lazy was definitely on his to do list today. "Sherlock?" he called, hoping that he would actually come back for him. Instead of an answer, he heard Sherlock's phone ring. With a sigh he got up and walked into Sherlock's room, fishing his phone out of the pocket of his discarded trousers.

 _One missed call – Baker Street_. Sherlock was seriously calling him from the land-line rather than just yelling back? John grinned and jumped when the phone started ringing again.

"What?" he asked when he picked up.

"You called for me."

"I did."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I just ..."

"John!"

"What?"

"I think you were right."

"I was right about what?"

"About me getting hungry."

John laughed. "Really? Do you want me to come down and cook you breakfast?"

"I would like that very much."

"Alright, give me ten minutes and I'll be down."

Sherlock ended the call and John grinned at the phone for a while. Then he hurried to shower and shave, trying to be fast but finding it impossible to manage in the span of ten minutes. He was still shaving, a fresh towel around his hips when Sherlock appeared in the door, looking pointedly at his watch. John just laughed at him and continued.

When Sherlock didn't say anything for a while, John looked at him through the mirror and found him staring at him. But he wasn't staring at his face. John lifted his right hand and carefully scratched his neck, watching as Sherlock's eyes went wide for a moment before he figured that he had been found out and diverted his gaze, suddenly finding the bathtub incredibly interesting.

"It's fine," John smiled when Sherlock didn't look back at him.

Sherlock blushed lightly and then smiled, finally looking at John again. "I keep forgetting that I am allowed now."

John laughed and splashed his face with water. "How come I never noticed you looking at me like that before?"

The 'because you're an idiot'- look was answer enough but after a moment he added, "I did try not to be obvious."

"Really? Because I remember you looking at me quite frequently, but I always assumed that it wasn't really me you were looking at."

Sherlock nodded. "Sometimes it helps me to focus. If I look at you I can think better. More clearly. It seems as if you have been a catalyst all along."

John turned around after drying his face and walked to the door, pressing a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips. Then he walked downstairs, still in a towel, smiling when he heard Sherlock follow him.

The fridge was surprisingly full and John wondered if Sherlock actually enjoyed online food shopping. Sherlock sat down at the table and watched John prepare scrambled eggs, toast and tea. Then he peeled two oranges and put them down in front of Sherlock. "Eat," he ordered, and felt rather giddy as he watched Sherlock eat everything he was offered. However, when he had finished eating the first orange, with John being rather distracted by the way long fingers carefully separated the pieces just to slowly guide them into that mouth of his, Sherlock pushed the other one back to John. "You've lost a lot of weight, you need the vitamins just as much as I do."

"Right," John smiled at him and got a sweet smile back. He ate the orange while Sherlock was sipping tea, watching him eat.

John enjoyed the companionable silence, and after a while he noticed Sherlock growing tired. He wanted to ask him about last night but somehow he couldn't bring himself to actually do it.

"You said you took the day off, right?" he asked when Sherlock stifled a yawn. "Maybe you should just go back to bed and relax for a while. I know you haven't slept properly in days and I am sure it will do you some good."

"Do you plan on going down to the Yard while I sleep?" Sherlock asked, his eyes fixed on John's. There really was no point in lying, was there? "Yes, but I could ask Lestrade to send a car and to bring me back just to make sure that nothing happens?"

"Out of the question."

"But I have to go down."

"You can call and tell him you'll come around tomorrow, and as far as I know he has the day off as well?"

"So you want me to stay?"

A smile flickered over Sherlock's features as he was clearly aware that John just wanted him to tell him that yes, he wanted him to stay. "Obviously," he said, his face expressionless again. "We could watch some telly and I could try and figure out how the painter managed to steal the ring when he was on another continent at the time of the break in."

"Pardon?"

"Oh, never mind. I just think that I need you here so I can think properly about this."

"Right, okay. But I'm still going out with Greg later."

"If you have to."

"I don't have to, but I want to."

Sherlock didn't reply, but finished his tea and migrated to the couch, onto which he let himself fall with a dramatic flourish, and closed his eyes. John wanted to be annoyed, but he found that he wasn't. With a smile he started to clear the table and wash the dishes. Eventually he walked upstairs to get dressed and when he returned he found that Sherlock had fallen asleep. He sat down in his chair and texted Lestrade.

_Sherlock's asleep. Care to come by and do the report here? Did you find my phone and wallet?"_

Then he leaned back and watched Sherlock's sleeping form. He was still only wearing a towel and if Lestrade came by he would not be overly amused. On top of that it was not nearly warm enough in the room for Sherlock to lie almost naked on the couch and sleep. John covered him with a blanket, careful not to wake him up.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. _Sure, do you need anything? Still up for a pint after? Will bring phone and wallet. Greg_

Great, so they had found them. He wondered whether Lestrade would tell him about the evening on Millennium Bridge. It was rather strange that nobody had told him what had happened while he had been underwater. All of those men Lestrade had dispatched, and no doubt a handful of men sent by Mycroft, had not just been there to watch, he was sure of that. And Sherlock, where had he been and what had he been doing? He most certainly had not simply stood by and waited until he was dragged out of the water. He must have watched him, despite John's plea for him to not do that to himself. The fact that he had been the first one there when he had been rescued from the river spoke volumes. And yet, he hadn't said a single word about it since. 

Sherlock grunted in his sleep and turned to lie on his side, his face towards the back of the couch. Just as John thought he had not really woken up but simple shifted in his sleep, he started violently, pushing himself up on his elbow, his head snapping around. His eyes were wide and scared, scanning the room. Only when he found John looking back at him, he closed them again, his arm giving in underneath him and he fell back on the couch with a small, pained sound.

John watched him silently, his heart contracting painfully at Sherlock's reaction. It was obvious what had just happened and he wouldn't push Sherlock to talk about it if he did not do it by himself. Suddenly it seemed like a bad idea to leave him, even if it was just down to the pub for a few pints.

With a shaky sigh, Sherlock turned around to lie on his back, his eyes bright. He looked at John, his lips pressed together tightly.

"How long until Lestrade gets here?" he finally asked, his voice unusually flat.

"Half an hour, maybe longer." He didn't ask how Sherlock knew.

"I'm cold."

John had not expected him to say that. He stood up and walked over to the couch, sitting down on the edge. "Maybe you should get dressed," he started, but he felt the unnatural heat radiating off Sherlock even before he touched his skin.

"Christ, Sherlock, you're burning up." He pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, watching him wince at the contact, but at the same time lean in closer, as his hand was presumably colder than Sherlock's own skin.

It was only natural, John thought. He could have caught it from him, but his body would not have allowed him to get sick over the past days, but now that he could relax for the first time, it hit him full force. Considering how little he had slept and eaten with the exception of the few times that John had prepared him food, some sort of breakdown had almost been inevitable. However, now that he saw Sherlock like this, looking so young again, with wide eyes and messy hair and reddened cheeks, he felt such a rush of fierce need to protect him from all things bad and hurtful that he was surprised at himself.

He was a doctor, for Christ's sake, and Sherlock was just having a fever, but somehow it pained him immensely to know that he was hurting, and not just physically. "I think I should take you to bed," he said, quietly, gently running the back of his fingers across his forehead, knowing they were cooler than his palm.

"No, I want to stay here. I don't want to be alone." He said that very quietly, almost a whisper, and John wondered whether this was something that he had never said in his life before. Tears were blurring his vision, but crying would have been ridiculous, and Sherlock would probably take the piss as soon as he felt up for that again, but for a moment he just wanted to cradle him and tell him that he would never have to be alone again.

"Alright. But you will put on your pyjamas. I'll go and get them." He got up, looking down on Sherlock again before he walked upstairs and got Sherlock's pillow, his blanket and his pyjamas. Knowing that Sherlock was feeling utterly miserable, he tried to be gentle but firm when he pulled him up into a sitting position so he could put on his t-shirt. Even now he couldn't quite keep his eyes off Sherlock's chest, and although he felt bad for his ulterior motive, he hoped that the bout of fever would disappear as quickly as it had arrived.

The pants and pyjama bottoms were a little harder to put on, because Sherlock winced whenever his hands touched his skin. He remembered how painful it could be to be touched when the fever was high. Eventually he got him to lift his hips so he could pull them up. "Sherlock," he said, feeling the need to make sure that he knew he was there for him. "I'll go and get you a glass of water and paracetamol. Don't lie down yet, okay?"

Sherlock nodded weakly. When John returned his eyes were closed, but he was awake. As soon as John came close he held out his hand. However, John felt the need to be a little over the top, if only to give Sherlock something to be amused about, even in his state, so he made an impatient noise in his throat which caused Sherlock to open his eyes with a frown. "Open up," he ordered, holding the little white pill up in front of his mouth.

Sherlock did as he was told and John placed the pill on the tip of his tongue and then held the glass against his lips. Sherlock wanted to take hold of it, but John shook his head. "No hands."

Sherlock actually smiled at him before he leaned closer and drank. He finished the whole glass, and John wasn't sure whether he did it because he was thirsty, or because he wanted to please him. In any case, he finished it and then pulled him in for a hug. John fell against him as he lost his balance, and he knew that it must have hurt Sherlock, but he held on to him nevertheless. "Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered against his neck, and John smiled and pressed a kiss against the dry, burning skin.

"I hope this will be over soon," John pulled back slightly, wiping a strand of hair from his forehead. "Can't have you take up all my time with me having to take care of you." Sherlock chuckled and winced at the same time.

John wanted to move off of Sherlock, knowing that his body was screaming at him to be left alone, but Sherlock seemed reluctant to let go. He inhaled deeply, but then didn't say anything and John smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before he finally stood up. "You don't have to talk, just get some rest, okay? And please don't worry, the only place I could be if I am not right here is either the kitchen or the bathroom."

Sherlock just dropped to the side and John carefully placed the pillow under his head. For a second he wondered whether Sherlock had ever had anyone to take care of him when he was sick, or when he was coming down from a drug induced high. He shuddered, feeling incredibly sorry for Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was raspy and he sounded very tired.

"Yes?"

"Right now I just feel like I want to die, so I'm easy to deal with. I'm afraid I might get obnoxious as soon as I start to feel better. I want to apologise beforehand, because ..."

John burst out laughing. "Oh god, Sherlock. Don't worry, I will neither tell anyone about this, nor will I be mad at you. I might get annoyed and yell at you, but you will just have to suffer that. In any case, I will not be mad at you."

Sherlock's left eyebrow rose just the slightest bit and then a small smile graced his lips. "I can just pretend you're sexually frustrated then," he said, the smile turning into a grin for only a second. Then he closed his eyes and pushed his head deeper into the pillow.

John huffed out a laugh, wanting nothing more than to kiss that smug expression off Sherlock's face, but the thought of causing him any more discomfort than he was already in stopped him. "You know, now that I can use my left hand again, I am pretty sure I'll be fine."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back open, and for a moment John could see the usual cold stare pushing through the feverish brightness. There were so many things he could have said, and John could see them all run through his mind right in front of him, but for once, Sherlock remained silent.

"Sleep," John ordered with a smile, turning towards the kitchen to get Sherlock a wet cloth to cool his forehead.

"Kiss?" he asked, and John turned around, trying to look like the sensible adult in their relationship.

"Not exactly a nice prospect to have us both down with a fever tomorrow, huh?"

"You won't catch your own cold again. You have already developed antibodies and ..."

"Fine, fine," he interrupted Sherlock. "If I get sick, you will take care of me."

Sherlock managed another smile. "I should, shouldn't I? I didn't really have the chance to do that when you were ill."

John sat down on the edge of the coffee table and pushed his hand into Sherlock's hair, despite him being sensitive to his touch. If he wanted a kiss, he would get a kiss; and he seemed to remember to have read somewhere that sexual stimulation was a rather efficient painkiller. He leaned in carefully, slowly, watching Sherlock's eyes as they narrowed and eventually closed just before he reached his lips. For a moment he considered to just give him a peck and be off, but he knew that Sherlock, stubborn as he was, would probably get up and follow him into the kitchen to claim his kiss if he denied him. He smiled against Sherlock's lips and then pushed down a little harder, waiting for his lips to open and let him in. For a few heartbeats, nothing happened, but then he felt a hand against his cheek and another one against his neck and then suddenly Sherlock kissed him, open mouthed and hot and desperate. For a moment John was overwhelmed, but then he remembered how haunted Sherlock had looked when he had woken up and thought that John was gone. Sherlock was clearly just making sure that he was, in fact, right there.

No matter how tempting it would have been to rest one hand on Sherlock's stomach, and feel his muscles move under the sharp intake of breath, and the shudder when their tongues touched yet again, John kept his hands where they were; one in Sherlock's hair and the other next to his head on the couch. He allowed himself to get lost in the kiss for a few more moments before he pulled back.

They were both breathing heavily and John was, despite feeling rather guilty about it, aroused. He could only guess about Sherlock, whose middle was covered by the blanket. Sherlock looked at him, and, as he straightened up, grinned again.

"Bastard," John murmured, turning yet again towards the kitchen.

"What was that?"

"You heard me," John smiled despite himself.

Sherlock chuckled and John heard that he pulled the blanket closer around himself. When he came back, Sherlock was almost asleep again. However, he looked much more peaceful now than he had before. John carefully placed the cold, wet cloth on his forehead, drawing a low moan from Sherlock that was definitely not supposed to be sexy.

He cleared his throat and moved away from the object of his at present uncalled for desire and sat down in the arm chair. For a few moments he just sat there, wondering whether Sherlock had fallen asleep. Just as he leaned forward to grab his phone from the table, Sherlock smiled. "I take that as a compliment," he said, sounding altogether too smug for someone with high fever, obviously not feeling the need to elaborate on his remark.

"Get some sleep, Sherlock," John said, sounding a lot gentler than he had intended.


	4. Chapter Four

Sherlock slept and John watched him. He thought of getting his computer to write down the experiences of the previous days, but somehow he did not feel like admitting his feelings to the pages. It seemed like a betrayal of something that was still new and fragile, and to write about it just did not seem right. He also did not want to go back to his blog. The new relationship was one thing which he didn't feel particularly keen on sharing with the world, but the experiences of the last few weeks were still too immediate and too frightening for him to be able to go back mentally. It had been fine with Carl's case, because he was able to differentiate between his personal issues and the case itself, at least in theory, but this last case might have started off very interestingly, but had soon become much too personal. He wouldn’t be able to write about it like he had with other cases. Like the library incident, this one would remain unwritten.

Sherlock's breakdown and his rather impressive change in his attitude towards John were proof of just how personal things had gotten. While he had been caring and rather sweet since their first kiss, his behaviour was different now. He wasn't solely trying to please him, and all those little endearing gestures for which he probably hated himself but couldn't help being like that anyway were an expression of his need to just be with him and to make sure that he wouldn't disappear and that he was alright. John knew that Sherlock cared more for Lestrade than he would let on, and that Mycroft was probably the closest thing he had to a friend, despite the bickering, but he also knew that Sherlock had not let himself get involved emotionally like this with anyone before, never mind the physical aspect of it. He wasn't used to having to worry about anyone, and he wasn't used to missing anyone, and least of all was he used to being afraid to be left again.

With a sigh he got up and put the kettle on. Lestrade would be here any minute and he needed to sort out his thoughts before he'd have an emotional breakdown on Sherlock's behalf in front of Lestrade.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was weak, but he heard him anyway, as if he had been expecting for him to call the entire time, not allowing himself to be too noisy and distracted. He quietly walked back into the living room. "Yes?"

"I told Mrs Hudson to not let Lestrade in," Sherlock said, rubbing his face with one hand, his expression somewhere between a frown and a sheepish grin. John chuckled and walked over to him, gently removing the now warmed cloth and touching Sherlock's heated forehead. "Feel any better?"

Sherlock just shook his head lightly and pressed his head back into the pillow. Just as John wanted to lean down and kiss his face, he heard a loud knock from downstairs. The door to the hallway was slightly open, so he could hear Mrs Hudson answering the door.

"Hello Mr Lestrade, how lovely to see you." Mrs Hudson chirped. "I am most sorry, but the boys ... I mean, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson asked me to not let you inside. I'm not quite sure why, but Sherlock told me specifically ..."

John couldn't help but laugh out loud and even Sherlock chuckled, but then winced and screwed his eyes closed at the pain. "I'll go and save him," John said with a smile, rushing downstairs to make sure that there wouldn't be an argument.

"John, what's this all about?" Lestrade looked rather confused. Mrs Hudson just turned around, nodding into John's direction. "Ask him," she said, sounding slightly prim.

John laughed, but caught himself again and gently patted Mrs Hudson's shoulder. "Thank you very much for doing this, Mrs Hudson. The rule will remain intact, and this is an exception." She looked at him sharply but then simply shrugged and turned around and closed the door behind her back.

"Greg, I'm sorry. It's just with your talent for incredibly bad timing we thought it better to establish some sort of security system...," he nodded in the direction of Mrs Hudson's closed door. "But it's not just you, you know? She's better than any regular security system, and makes much better biscuits as well," he added, slightly more audible so that she wouldn't be offended while listening behind the door. Lestrade grinned and shook his head. "Never mind that. What's going on with Sherlock?"

John started walking up the stairs, motioning the DI to follow him. "He crashed. I guess it was to be expected, but it's bad. Or maybe I'm just a little susceptible when it comes to him."

John carefully pushed open the door and found Sherlock sitting straight on the couch, his hair curiously neat in comparison to the mess that it had been just moments ago. He held a cup of steaming tea in his hand and looked almost normal. Only the flush in his cheeks and the missing steel in his eyes gave his state away.

"Sherlock, you lie back down this very moment," John chided him, surprised at how natural this order came to him. Sherlock seemed equally surprised, but possibly for other reasons, as the blush deepened. "Now," John added, pointing his finger at the pillow to strengthen his point.

Very reluctantly Sherlock put down the cup on the table and let himself fall back onto the couch, pouting a bit. Lestrade grinned, clearly enjoying the fact that Sherlock was the one on the receiving end of the chiding this time.

"Stop grinning, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock scowled, causing John to step closer to the couch, blocking the view between their visitor and his grumpy patient. "Sherlock, you are not well enough to be obnoxious, okay? You're just going to exhaust yourself and find that for once Greg will be the one with the greater persistence, so do us all a favour and try to sleep some more?"

The pout was back, and more prominently than before, but probably only because Lestrade couldn't see his face. "Fine," he said, closing his eyes, sounding very much like the stubborn children John sometimes had had to deal with at the surgery.

"Good," John smiled and gently caressed his face, feeling him relax instantly under his touch. "You'll feel better soon and then you can be just as mean as you want to." Sherlock's lips twitched, but he didn't say anything. "I love you," John whispered quietly, so that Lestrade couldn't hear it. Sherlock, however, heard it perfectly and he turned to face the back of the couch to make sure that Lestrade wouldn't see his smile.

John turned around and shrugged apologetically. "Please, sit down." He pointed at the arm chair in which Sherlock usually sat when they watched telly; or rather had sat, as it had been ages since they had spent an evening in relative silence just watching some show that was interesting enough to keep Sherlock entertained and boring enough to be relaxing for John. Thinking about it now, it seemed rather strange that such a show could exist. With that thought came the sudden realisation that Sherlock might not have found the show itself interesting, but had not complained because he could watch John. He couldn't help but grin and rubbed his face in order to hide it from Lestrade who wasn't blind and not willing to ignore John's strange behaviour.

"What is it with you?" he asked, mildly amused.

John cleared his throat and shook his head. "Sorry, I just had an epiphany."

Lestrade chuckled and looked at Sherlock. He seemed worried, and for the first time John wondered if Sherlock had done something that justified the silence on the topic of last night.

"Are you okay, though?" Lestrade asked him, his focus back on John now.

"Yeah, I think so. There are quite a few things I have to come to terms with, but overall I'm alright. In the end it all happened so fast ...," he looked at Sherlock, "I think he's taken the harder blow."

"About that," Lestrade started and John was acutely aware that he was trying to avoid talking about it.

"Please tell me about it, because I am not quite sure what happened and I really need to know."

Lestrade seemed to shrink a bit and avoided looking at John. "Well, the thing is, we aren't sure what exactly happened down there either."

John frowned, not quite understanding what he was trying to say. "How do you mean?"

"You were on the bridge, we had sealed it off, and there was no way for anyone to get close to you."

"Well, yes, I'm aware ..."

"There was someone. He went straight past security. Invisible bastard. Even Mr Holmes's men didn't see him coming."

"How is that possible?"

"It isn't, and yet it happened. Someone was there, for only a few moments. He appeared out of the blue and was gone within seconds. He took Moriarty with him."

"I don't follow."

"Moriarty disappeared right after you fell into the Thames. He was gone, like a bloody magic trick or something. I've never seen anything like it. I mean, I wasn't that close, but we had men with night sight and we had cameras and even the video footage shows exactly what we saw." He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed having to admit to such a thing.

"And even Mycroft doesn't know what happened?"

"Well, I asked Mr Holmes and he gave me some cryptic answer, but I guess what he was trying to say was ..."

"Hogrm," came a tired voice from the couch.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade turned to Sherlock who dragged himself around so he was lying on his back again.

"It was a hologram. Elaborate but effective. Fooled you all, I see."

John had the distinct feeling that he had ended up in some weird science fiction novel and was just looking back and forth between Sherlock waving his hand about in a manner that was altogether too arrogant to be possible in his state, and Lestrade, whose face reflected dawning understanding.

"Let's say you're right. We still don't know how he could disappear."

"He didn't disappear, he fell into the river." Sherlock seemed somewhat annoyed and John started to understand that yet again he seemed to be the only one who knew what had happened.

"Sherlock, are you okay to talk about this?" John asked carefully. He knew that Lestrade wouldn't take anything out of this room that would hurt either of them, but judging by the state Sherlock was in it felt wrong to drag him through this before he was feeling better. But then again, Sherlock seemed willing enough to share his knowledge without any greater resistance, so maybe it would be best for him to spell it out now before he changed his mind.

"I'm fine," he said curtly. He wouldn't have needed to shoot him a quick pained glance to tell John that he was far from that, but he pushed himself up on his elbows and inhaled deeply.

"If you check properly, you'll see that part of the bridge's lower railings have been removed recently for repair. The steel was exchanged for relatively stable but ductile plastic. He probably didn't know about it. He also didn't know that the blowback from his own gun in addition to being hit by a single shot would create enough force to push him through the plastic railing. While you were busy looking at the holographic figure, he dropped into the river, while the railings snapped back into place."

John watched him carefully. There had been no other shot, he was fairly sure of that. Snipers had been present, but he was sure that they only would have fired after Moriarty had dropped him. There hadn't been another shot until he was under water and carried away. But he had no notion of what had happened after he fell.

"Sherlock, there was no order to fire," Lestrade said thoughtfully. "What you say would make sense in a very strange way, but there was no other shot."

Sherlock looked back and forth between John and Lestrade, contemplating his answer. "They didn't find the body anywhere," he continued then, nonplussed by Lestrade's remark, but obviously also irritated by his own statement. "Either they will find him somewhere further east, or he has survived."

"Sherlock, even if he dropped into the water and wasn't fished out like John, chances are in fact pretty high that he has survived. The drop is not that deep and he was free to move."

Sherlock wanted to say something, that much was obvious, but he stayed silent, looking at Lestrade for a while longer as if contemplating his trust in him. Then he simply nodded and lay back down, turning towards the back of the couch again.

All of this was confusing, but at least Sherlock seemed to be sure of what he had seen, and considering that now they knew what to look for, the police would be able to see the truth in the video footage.

"Right," Lestrade pulled out a note pad and started scribbling on it. John watched him for a while, but then turned again to look at Sherlock's resting form. His shoulders were tense. He could see it through the shirt. When he was feeling better he'd give him a proper massage with oils and ... .

"John?" By the tone of his voice, Lestrade hadn't said his name for the first time. John felt himself blush and dragged his eyes away from the couch. "Sorry," he mumbled, and Lestrade looked at him in a way that told John that he was hoping to be wrong about his assumption of the content of John's thoughts.

"Could you take me slowly through everything that happened after you left the HQ?"

"Sure," he nodded, trying to think back and remember every detail that might have been important. Lestrade kept taking notes, nodding and humming his approval. When John had taken him through his conversation with Moriarty and described the moment when he had felt the hard impact on his back that pushed him as much as he let himself fall, Sherlock turned on his back again, extending a hand. Lestrade didn't notice it, because he was still jotting down notes, but John saw it and for a moment he had to fight down tears.

He got up and carefully sat down on the couch as Sherlock turned to face the room, his body curling around him. Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow and then looked down on his note pad, clearly aware that he was witnessing something incredibly intimate between the two.

Sherlock's hand came to rest on John's back, his thumb gently rubbing right under his shoulder blade. He realised that his palm was covering the bruise which the gun shot had left on his back. The bruise didn't hurt very much and he had all but forgotten about it until he had mentioned it again. Suddenly his mind went back to the morning when Sherlock had gently tapped his fingers against his spine and he understood that it was his silent way of showing concern for him. With a smile he cupped Sherlock's face, watching as his eyes narrowed, but didn't quite close. The fever was still high, and he could feel his quick pulse at the heel of his hand, and yet Sherlock was leaning into his touch.

When he looked up, his eyes fell onto the desk and the mess of papers and files which adorned it. His gun was peeking out from under some folders and for a moment he had the strongest urge to get up and hide it like he had the last time he had put it there. That was when Sherlock's thumb stopped moving, and when John looked down again he could see the secret plainly in his eyes.

Before they had left, just after Sherlock had returned downstairs from getting dressed after flashing Lestrade, he had stood by the desk and ruffled through the papers. He must have taken the gun. He knew about the second shot because he had been the one shooting. He had shot Moriarty in the same moment in which Moriarty had shot John. And he must have used a silencer, so that his shot couldn’t be heard. This was why he was so irritated about the missing body of his arch enemy. "Oh Sherlock," he said quietly, knowing that he couldn't speak about it, not with Lestrade in the room.

If Sherlock had been close, close enough to see that Moriarty was about to shoot John, close enough to witness John's lunatic attempt at distracting Moriarty by pressing the gun harder against his throat, it meant that Sherlock had yet again been confronted with the possibility to watch him die, and he had not closed his eyes this time. He had waited, patiently, to take revenge.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. "He could have killed you." And there they were again. Bright tears suddenly flooded his eyes, silently running over his cheeks into his dark hair. He could always blame the fever, John thought as he watched Sherlock crumble underneath him.

John didn't care that Lestrade was in the same room as they were, and he knew that by now he was probably ready to just accept the fact that they were so much more now than what they had been a few weeks ago. He sat down on the carpet beside Sherlock, carefully wiping away the tears from his face, gently kissing his cheeks and lips and whispering sweet nothings. Sherlock eventually wrapped his arms around John and buried his face in his neck, sobbing quietly. The heat was almost unbearable but John didn't think of letting go. He had never seen Sherlock in such a vulnerable state, even when they had been talking about all of those things that Sherlock usually didn't talk about. This was different. He was very close to crying himself, but it was important now to make Sherlock feel safe and protected. God, he had expressed his need to feel safe several times already this morning and John wondered now why he hadn't asked about it.

He could hear Lestrade getting up quietly, making his way into the kitchen where he ran water to fill the kettle. "Where did you hit him?" John asked quietly, drawing his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Must have been his chest. I was aiming for his heart but you blocked him and I didn't trust myself to shoot too close to you. I didn't stay to watch. I just saw him crash through the rails and then I ran to find you."

"I'm sorry."

"No, John. I am sorry." John knew what he wanted to say and he was glad that he didn't say anything else than just that.

"I'm here," John said, hugging him tighter.

He waited until he heard the water boil and the kettle switch off with a click before he carefully pulled back, wiping at Sherlock's face again. "It's okay, alright? You just sleep some more and when you wake up you'll feel better."

Sherlock nodded silently as he sat up. When John wanted to get up and get Lestrade to come back to the living room, Sherlock pulled him back down and onto the couch while he pushed the pillow out of the way. John ended up sitting at the head of the couch, Sherlock's head buried in his lap, both of Sherlock's arms wrapped around his right arm which he had pulled down to his chest.

When John looked up he saw Lestrade standing in the door, two mugs of steaming tea in his hand, his face carefully blank. All John could do was shrug and gently wipe dark curls from Sherlock's sweaty forehead.

"I finished the report except for the hologram part. I'll have to get Sherlock to explain that in detail when he's better. I'll type it up tomorrow, but I guess our little plan for later has just been successfully terminated by this gentle creature there which used to be a certain Sherlock Holmes."

John looked down on Sherlock and noticed that his face didn't show any reaction. His breathing was deep and calm. He must have fallen asleep instantly, John noticed with a smile.

Lestrade smiled as well. "I would have _never_ in my life thought I would be so very right about something, but it seems that I was right about you."

"I'm sorry, though. I know you're uncomfortable with this."

"Not so much uncomfortable as completely mind-blown," Lestrade answered grinning. "I have no problem with you guys fancying each other ... it's everything it entails that is just a little much."

John couldn't help but grin. "So, we could just get Mrs Hudson to buy us some beer, watch some telly and order some Indian, what do you think?"

"Your landlady will kill me one of these days. Did you really ask her to keep me out?"

"Well," John said, trying not to laugh, "you do have an extraordinary talent to interrupt us in the middle of things."

"Right," Lestrade said, running a hand through his hair, "but have you considered the fact that there are only very few moments when it wouldn't be the wrong time. You two just always seem to be intensely close. I don't mean that that's a bad thing, but sometimes it is as if it's just the two of you and nobody else. And that's not just since you two decided you fancied each other."

"Do you think?"

Lestrade laughed. "Yeah, you're a team. A strange one, but a team. I wish anyone in my unit would be able to communicate as efficiently as you two do. There's just no bullshit between the two of you and that's pretty rare. Apart from the fact that now your communication seems to only work when you are within a one foot distance of each other ..."

John blushed, he could feel it, but perhaps it was time to just face the fact that it was probably true.

"Well," he said, gratefully accepting the tea that Lestrade handed him. "Let's talk about something not work related."


	5. Chapter Five

It was surprisingly easy to avoid anything that had to do with New Scotland Yard or any crime whatsoever. They shared stories about their school days when Lestrade had still dreamed of the Premiere League and John had kicked some major arse at rugby, which nobody had expected from him. Once they got started on their favourite football players there was no stopping them. It took Mrs Hudson's intrusion with biscuits to save them from spending the rest of the day trying to remember the best goal in the history of English football.

Mrs Hudson put the tray on the table and took a long hard look at Sherlock's sleeping face. "If he's not better tonight, let me know." She didn't even seem surprised that Sherlock was ill. She must have heard him telling Lestrade about the break down, or maybe she just had this strange female intuition which always seemed to tell her what was going on with Sherlock.

John gently touched Sherlock's forehead again. He seemed somewhat cooler, so sleep was definitely helping; and maybe his immediate presence. "Poor boy. He's really not allowed himself a break in a long time. You should take better care of him." This one was directed towards the DI, her accusation barely hidden. "Both of them, actually," she added with a quick glance towards John.

And Lestrade blushed. John watched with fascination as the man turned scarlet under the disapproving gaze of their landlady and for a moment he felt thankful that Sherlock was asleep and unable to witness this.

"Can I get anything else for you?" Mrs Hudson offered after she was satisfied that her message had been received loud and clear, and John and Lestrade exchanged a quick but telling glance. The landlady shook her head disapprovingly, but murmured, "I do think I have a bottle of Bordeaux somewhere."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John called after her, waking up Sherlock, who turned onto his side. John tried to ignore the fact that his face was now very close to his groin and that his hot hand was pressing against his thigh. Just breathe, he told himself.

Lestrade thankfully didn't seem to notice anything, so John pretended to be unperturbed and started talking about his time in medical school; anything to take his mind of the fact that Sherlock's half opened lips were breathing hot air against his crotch from an inch away and the chance that if he moved at all, the distance would be closed and he would have a proper problem.

He told him about Mike Stamford and the strange things they had done back then, thinking they would one day change the world. With a sad smile John remembered how Sherlock had said that neither of them really mattered in the greater scheme of things.

"But you've done your part, don't you think?" Lestrade looked at John, this time clearly noticing that something was wrong. "You've been to Afghanistan, and you've spent the better part of a year hunting down criminals and working at a surgery. I think that does count as changing the world."

John huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, I've put some plaster on a few scratched knees, treated the odd cough and had abuse shouted at me by this precious individual," he indicated Sherlock with his chin, "because I didn't quite see what he saw."

Lestrade laughed heartily. "You're mad if you think that you didn't make a difference. And even if you consider your work to be nothing special, your positive influence on said precious individual alone is worth the Victoria Cross." Sherlock didn't move. He seemed fast asleep and John couldn't quite keep his fingers from playing with his hair, no matter how scared he was that this might actually cause Sherlock to move closer to him.

"And by positive influence you mean that he is now irritating the hell out of everyone by kissing me in public."

"Something like that, yeah," Lestrade chuckled. "It's much better than him yelling at us or laying out to us in detail just how stupid we are."

"Oh God," John grinned, "I do think you have a point."

Mrs Hudson came back, carrying another tray with biscuits, two wine glasses, a bottle of Bordeaux, and a cup of steaming herbal tea.

"Thank you, that is very kind of you," John smiled at her. "I'd rather not wake him up, though, but I'll make sure he drinks the tea as soon as he's awake."

Mrs Hudson smiled down at John and Sherlock. "I always knew you wouldn't need the second bedroom," she remarked with an amused expression.

John grinned back at her. "Oh, we do _need_ the second bedroom." And at the slightly shocked faces of his landlady and Lestrade he quickly added. "For all of his things. I couldn't handle it if my room looked like his. I almost died the other day." Something told him that he wasn't making it any better, so he just shut up and turned his head away, hoping that the two silent figures in the room would quickly find a new topic to talk about.

Thankfully, Lestrade decided that it was time to praise Mrs Hudson's biscuits, which proved to be a rather effective diversion. She turned to him with a thankful smile and then bade the gentlemen good night and disappeared.

John exhaled loudly and shook his head at himself. "Would you mind opening the wine?" he asked, hoping to rearrange Sherlock's head on his lap while Lestrade went to look for the cork screw, but he had no such luck. Lestrade had come prepared and he fished in his trouser pocket for a while before he produced a pocket knife which conveniently happened to have a cork screw. He opened the wine rather expertly and poured them both a glass. Then, realising that John wouldn't leave the couch anytime soon and wanting to bridge the distance, he put the glasses on the coffee table and carried over a chair from the desk and sat down again.

"So, when you said you wanted him to take a break, did you mean that you would possibly go on holiday or something?"

John smiled. "I don't think he'd survive that kind of break. No, I was rather thinking of just staying here, letting him work on his experiments, keeping him out of trouble, that kind of holiday."

"You could always take him on a trip somewhere. Brighton, maybe. Not too far away from London but still far away enough to not tempt him."

John laughed and shook his head. "He'd find something to occupy his mind with, I'm sure. He'd probably cause more trouble by leaving London than by staying here." He sipped on his wine but almost spat it out again when he felt Sherlock closing the last remaining distance between his lips and John's flies. Fighting for his breath for a minute, he hid his face behind his arm, coughing to cover up the moan that was inevitably drawn from his lips when Sherlock's tongue pressed against him through his jeans. John had never been more thankful for Sherlock's wild hair, which covered the scene rather effectively. However, his blush was much easier to spot.

It took all he had to not simply push Sherlock's head away again. He also managed to not look down, because that would have ended badly. Instead, he drew a deep breath, forced himself to think of the severed body parts which Sherlock sometimes brought home, coughed once more and shook his head. "Sorry," he managed through clenched teeth. "I inhaled some wine."

Lestrade just waved his hand dismissively and started talking about his last holiday in Spain. From the way he was talking about it, it became obvious that it had been a while since he had actually been on holiday and that he actually needed one as badly as Sherlock and John. John was very thankful that Lestrade was talking for now, because even though Sherlock's tongue had retreated back behind his lips, his mouth was still very attached to him and his jeans were uncomfortably tight.

When Sherlock was feeling better, he would punish him for that. This was simply not acceptable. But by god it felt good.

The wine was gone rather quickly, so John called Angelo's and ordered a bit of food and another bottle. He knew they'd probably be hung over in the morning and that it was irresponsible to get drunk with a sick patient in the flat, but then again, if said patient was up for some major teasing, he could as well be neglected for a while.

When the doorbell rang, Lestrade jumped up before John could even more. "I got that," he announced and was out of the door. John exhaled loudly, for a moment contemplating what to do, but he knew that the only sensible thing to do was to either move Sherlock's face away or remove himself from the couch. With a sigh he gently stroked his thumb over Sherlock's heated cheek. "Sherlock," he whispered, not really wanting to speak louder so that Lestrade wouldn't notice that he was doing anything at all.

Sherlock took a few moments to react, but when he did, a wide smile spread across his lips and he nuzzled John's erection. Okay, that was it. John almost forcefully pushed Sherlock away from him and wormed his way out from under him. Breathing heavily, he stared down at Sherlock who had turned to look up at him, a perfect picture of innocence.

"I hate you," John said, sounding decidedly too turned on. He did not give Sherlock the chance to answer him, but turned around and stalked into the kitchen, looking for plates. When Lestrade came back upstairs, he put the plates on the table and excused himself with the need to use the bathroom.

In the bathroom he realised that he did indeed need to piss, but that another urge was much more prominent. Just the thought that he was about to have a wank while Lestrade was in the flat made his ears burn, but he didn't really have a choice. Biting his lip, he took care of himself quickly. He did not allow himself to indulge in fantasies relating to Sherlock's lips or tongue or hands or ... fuck.

John knew he had already been in the bathroom longer than it was sensible, so he cleaned himself up half-heartedly and let cold water run over his fingers. He splashed his face and dried off, shaking his head at himself in the mirror.

When he came back down Lestrade had already transferred the food to the plates, opened the second bottle and had made a bit of room on the table. "He didn't take any money," he informed John with a shrug.

"That's very nice of him," John said, thankful that his slightly longer absence seemed to have gone unnoticed. Strange how he started to suspect that everyone around him was as focused on his actions as Sherlock was. If he'd keep thinking like this, he'd eventually become paranoid.

Not even looking at the couch, he sat down with his back to Sherlock, and as he was eating he realised that Sherlock had been right about him not eating enough. He had literally forgotten to eat even when he had had the time. Well, he had had to choose between being in bed with Sherlock or food, so food had never really stood a chance. He was grinning again he realised when Lestrade shot him an amused glance. "Sorry."

The food was not only needed, but actually rather good. John thought about Angelo and his persisting optimism and quite obvious love for Sherlock. It clearly wasn't just about having been saved by Sherlock. He genuinely liked him, just as the homeless liked him. Now that he knew Sherlock better, he started to understand how important it seemed for him to keep his distance; to keep up the image of the arrogant git who'd make your entire life miserable by exposing the one secret which would grant exactly that.

It was strangely sad, but he could see how Sherlock needed this reputation just as much as he needed his reputation as a genius. It opened doors, but it also meant that he was usually left alone. He could help others without involving his own person too much. There were loads of people whom he had helped, and the list of people who 'owed' him a favour was growing every day, and yet he rarely ever made use of them if it wasn't for a case. It seemed as if everything Sherlock did in public was solely work related, but lately, his work and his private life had become mingled and he couldn't quite keep up with his own image anymore. Maybe that was another reason why he was in the state that he was in. It was confusing on more levels than John could imagine. Maybe a holiday wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

Lestrade watched him with interest, and John apologised, explaining his thoughts as sketchily as he could without offending Sherlock, and Lestrade smiled knowingly. Despite what he had said when he had surprised Sherlock and John on the fake drug's bust, he did know Sherlock quite a bit, and he clearly had noticed the change in him.

When the second bottle of wine was empty and the plates cleared, Lestrade decided to take a cab home. John was almost tempted to put Sherlock to bed and offer the couch, but then he thought of Sherlock's antics and decided against it. Lestrade handed John his wallet and phone, both still wrapped in a plastic bag. "I almost forgot," he said with an apologetic smile, "please check whether everything is still there. We charged your phone, so it should work." For a second John wondered whether Lestrade had actually read the text messages which he had saved on it, but this time the thought didn't bother him as much as it had when Sherlock had been away in Canada. "Thank you, Greg. I do appreciate what you do for me ... for him ... for us," John answered and suddenly he felt the strong urge to hug him. But that would be awkward, he decided, and just put the bag away.

He took Lestrade downstairs, enjoying the cold night air which should have sobered him up but somehow made him only feel warmer inside.

"You take care of yourself, alright?" Lestrade asked, giving John's arm a light squeeze before he disappeared in the taxi.

"Happy hangover tomorrow," John grinned before he closed the door.

After the cab had driven off, John leaned against the door frame, inhaling deeply and wondering if he could force Sherlock to actually come away with him when he was feeling better. Mycroft would surely allow them to go somewhere calm and away from the rush of London. The Lake District, maybe? With a smile he imagined them on a walk, Sherlock deducing random things about the landscape and citing Wordsworth, because of all the things that he had deleted, _The Daffodils_ surely had been important for some case which caused him to remember it.

Well, before he, too, fell ill again, he should go up and get some sleep. Closing the door quietly, he walked up the stairs, thinking about the many times he had walked up these seventeen steps and entered the flat and felt more like home than in any other place he had ever lived in.

Back in the living room he brought Sherlock another paracetamol and made him drink the now cold tea which Mrs Hudson had made him. Sherlock was barely awake and the fever was worse than it had been when Sherlock had molested him on the couch. Nevertheless, John grinned and pressed a gentle kiss to his friend's forehead. "You silly man," he whispered, not quite knowing whether he meant Sherlock or himself.


	6. Chapter Six

"John, make me feel better."

For a moment John didn't quite know where he was. Then he opened his eyes and found that he was slouching in his arm chair and Sherlock was sitting on the couch, his hair all over the place while he rubbed his face with both hands, looking utterly miserable. John wanted to be upset about what had happened earlier, but seeing him like that, he knew that he didn't stand a chance.

"Sherlock," he tried, his voice rough from sleep, "I don't think I can."

Sherlock stopped the rubbing and lifted his face to look at him. "You're a doctor; you're supposed to be able to make me feel better."

John couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, but I already gave you another painkiller and if your body doesn't work with that the only thing you can do is sleep."

"I did sleep. I still feel miserable." And he sounded it, too. John was almost sure that he wasn't entirely honest, but considering that Sherlock usually didn't complain about any ailment, _this_ seemed uncharacteristically cute. Ah, here we go again. John tried very hard to get rid of the silly smile on his face.

"You're not helping," Sherlock added, leaning back and pulling the blanket up to his chin.

"Alright, alright," John muttered, pushing himself out of the chair to get Sherlock some water, feeling better than he had expected after all that wine. When he turned around Sherlock was standing in the door, the blanket wrapped around him as if he was feeling miserably cold. John merely raised an eyebrow and wondered whether Sherlock would hate him if he took a picture with his newly returned phone.

"Here," he said, shoving the glass into Sherlock's view, "drink."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but took the glass and downed it. "Good," John said, deciding that maybe he should have a glass of water, too, and then finally go to sleep in an actual bed. Sherlock remained where he was, watching John drink his glass of water.

"Are you leaving me?" he asked when John opened the door to the hallway, sounding somewhat like a child which was afraid of the dark, asking their parents whether it was absolutely necessary to close the door all the way.

Well, he wouldn't fall for that. "Yes, I am going to bed. My back will kill me if I spend the entire night on that chair."

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. "I'll join you."

"You sure?"

"You can carry me," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Yes, and then I'll be up all night because you want me to make you feel better."

"That is the plan, yes."

John sighed, but then smiled and gently touched Sherlock's face. "You go up, I'll get your things."

The tired smile he got in return was almost making up for the lack of sleep and sexual frustration he knew he could expect. Sherlock dropped the blanket where he stood and made his way upstairs. John heard him use the bathroom while he went back into the living room, picking up the blanket on his way to get the pillow. When he came into Sherlock's room he was leaning against the head board, looking expectantly at John.

John couldn't help himself, he started to undress, slowly. If he was unable to make Sherlock feel better, he could at least try to entertain him for the time being. And Sherlock sat up straight, eyes widening just so much that John noticed the change. The smile that played on his lips made him look much healthier already.

Sherlock's eyes were roaming over his body. When he pushed his shirt over his shoulders, they stopped at his scar for a while and then moved down, willing him to continue with his jeans. He took his time to open the top button, slowly, very slowly pulling down the zipper. He could hear Sherlock swallow.

With a grin, he leaned down to pull off his socks, watching as Sherlock's eyes narrowed in annoyance. John had never ever stripped for anyone, and this wasn't really different from undressing in his usual style, only much slower, but Sherlock’s reaction surprised him. John stood up straight again and scratched the back of his neck, frowning at Sherlock as if thinking about something important. "I'll be in the shower," he announced and turned around, just slowly enough to witness how Sherlock's mouth fell open in shock.

"John!"

He had spoken too loudly and John bit his lip as to not laugh at Sherlock.

"Yes, love?" he asked, half turning again, an innocent smile on his lips.

"John?" he said again, this time much more quietly. When John turned around, Sherlock had moved to the edge of the bed, looking at him with wide pleading eyes. "Don't go. Not now."

"Why not?" He was impressed by how innocent he managed to sound.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Yes, he was definitely better than he had been a few hours ago. "Come here."

The demanding tone in Sherlock's voice made his knees go weak. So much for staying in control, John thought. He walked back to the bed, unsure what to do with Sherlock. Clearing his throat, he stopped in front of him, reaching out with his left hand to feel his forehead. Sherlock was still very warm, but not burning up anymore. He would make him drink another glass of water before letting him sleep again.

Sherlock looked back at him, his eyes searching his face. "Was that sarcasm?" he asked, sounding a lot like he did when he questioned someone. John didn't quite know what he meant and just looked at Sherlock blankly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed rather dramatically. "You just called me _love_."

John had to smile. He had indeed meant to mock him, but it had come out sounding so natural. While he was thinking about it he could see a frown forming on his face. "Yes and no," he said, before the frown would get any worse. He gently smoothed out the skin on Sherlock's forehead with his thumb. "But if you don't want me to I won't call you that again."

Sherlock exhaled and grabbed his hips, pulling him close, and pressed his face against John's stomach. "Not in public," he simply said, but John could hear the smile in his voice. He chuckled and carefully drew his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Do you feel better, then?" he asked, sneaking his left hand under the collar of Sherlock's t-shirt and flattening it across his shoulder blade.

"Hmm," came a deep hum from below, which he could feel against his stomach. John had been half hard since he had started undressing, but now he felt his body respond rather strongly to Sherlock's proximity. Just as he wanted to step back, intending to get Sherlock to go to sleep and then maybe have a more thorough wank than earlier before going to bed himself, Sherlock started to push at his jeans, hooking his fingers into his underwear, dragging it down with the denim.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John groaned when he felt his lips just below his navel and a second later on his cock. Sherlock didn't tease him, but went straight for the kill. Within minutes John had trouble standing up, his hands helplessly clutching at Sherlock's shoulders, unable to keep his hips still. Thankfully, Sherlock's hands were holding onto his hips, keeping him in place.

And Sherlock didn't seem to want to stop. He was consciously repeating the things that made John double over, John's hands doubtlessly leaving marks on Sherlock's shoulders. This was impossible. It was wrong. Sherlock was sick, he could feel the intense heat of the remaining fever around himself, and he shouldn't be up, never mind doing what he did with his tongue ... "Oh god!" There was no way back now, and if he was honest with himself, he had not once tried to really stop him. "Oh Sherlock, please!" he was shouting now, but he was beyond caring. John was acutely aware of the whimpers that escaped him and when one skilled hand moved from his hip to squeeze his arse, he was sure that his legs would just give out underneath him.

When he came he doubled over again, unable to keep standing up straight. Cradling Sherlock's head with his arms and hands he jerked again and again into Sherlock's mouth.

For a few moments he could only hope that he hadn't hurt Sherlock. He hadn't meant to lose control like this; to just let his body take over and trust that Sherlock could take it. When he straightened up again, holding on to Sherlock's shoulders, he was greeted with a wide smile. John chuckled and carefully leaned down to kiss him, but Sherlock had other plans. Still holding on to his hips he simply pulled him onto the bed and pushed him on his back, climbing on top of him. John's head was swimming lightly. He had definitely had too much wine.

"Sherlock, what in the world are you doing? You're supposed to feel awful and weak and you go and ...," he stopped, because Sherlock leaned down and licked in one long stroke from his left nipple to his chin. "Okay," he managed, not sure whether he should be confused or turned on.

Sherlock spent a while nibbling at the skin of his throat but eventually he lifted his head. "I didn't say thank you." That was all John got, and judging from Sherlock's face he wouldn't say anything else than that.

John sighed and wrapped his arms around him, forcing him to lie down rather than sit on him. "Do you feel better?"

Sherlock smiled and gently kissed him. "Much better, yes. Especially now."

John grinned and carefully placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "That was very much unexpected," he admitted.

Sherlock grinned back. "You've been aroused the entire afternoon and evening. I figured you might appreciate some relief."

"Your face was on my cock for an hour, how could I not be turned on by that?" John asked, willing Sherlock to feel bad about it but knowing that he didn't stand a chance.

"I'm flattered that in my unattractive state you still showed such a strong reaction."

"Oh Sherlock, this has nothing to do with any state that you're in. While I do appreciate your looks, it is not the reason why I ... want you. I mean, you are gorgeous, but in comparison to me, you could look like death and still be attractive."

Sherlock frowned and rolled off him, coming to lie on his back. "John, I do understand where this sentiment comes from, taking into account that you have been injured in Afghanistan and had trouble adjusting to London, but you have to know that I do find you beautiful."

"And that blows my mind," John said quietly.

"John," Sherlock moved onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. "Don't think like that. You know you are attractive. And you are self-confident. I mean, you were trying to get it on with Anthea," he grinned. "But honestly, you are beautiful."

John smiled at Sherlock and moved his head a bit so he could kiss him. "But you consider a human skull to be your friend and you find algae and bacteria beautiful, so I might just have a right to doubt ..."

"Is it really that important to you what other people think?" he cut in before John could finish his sentence.

John looked at him. He looked at those bright eyes through which he slowly started to see the world and shook his head. "But you believe me?" Sherlock asked quietly, still looking at him. John nodded and then wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close until he felt his body slowly relax against his. So much for having a shower and brushing his teeth, John thought with a smile before he let himself drift off.

 ***

"John."

Oh god, was he going to wake up to his name every morning now? It wasn't that he didn't appreciate it, but the expected hangover was introducing itself with a rather sickening pounding in his head.

With a grunt, John turned on his back, experimentally opening one eye.

"Hi," Sherlock greeted him, altogether too chipper for someone who had spent the last day in a feverish haze.

"No," John said and closed his eye again.

"Wake up, please."

"Sherlock," John was desperate to just fall asleep again, "please."

He felt movement on the bed and sensed Sherlock getting up. Good.

"John?" Why was Sherlock sounding so incredibly awake?

"Sherlock," John opened both eyes and squinted at the light. "I feel like death, please don't try to get me out of bed."

He could see the disappointment on Sherlock's face, but something told him that he knew that John wasn't in any state to just jump out of bed and be alright. He closed his eyes again and tried to figure out the severity of his hangover. It was a rather bad headache, but he didn't feel nauseated, which was a good sign. He drew a careful long breath and rubbed his temples. This was going to be a pretty bad day. But then he remembered that no matter how healthy Sherlock seemed now, he couldn't just be alright.

"Sherlock?" he asked, massaging his own neck, trying to find relief from the pain.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock sat down on the bed and John could feel a warm hand sneaking under his head, slowly pulling until he lifted his head. "Drink," Sherlock said gently and for a moment John did just that. The water was cold and tasted better than he thought was possible. Maybe he just wasn't young enough anymore to deal with larger amounts of alcohol. With a sigh he leaned back, and Sherlock pulled his hand away.

"Do you feel better?" John asked, his hand weakly searching for Sherlock's warmth next to him. Sherlock laughed and put the glass down on the nightstand. "I do. You, however, look worse than after the kidnapping."

"Thanks," John mumbled, his hand finally finding his Sherlock's. He felt Sherlock's laugh more than he heard it, a soft breath on his face, and then he felt a warm body wrap itself around him.

"You know, if you ask me one more time if I'm feeling better, I'll say something rude," Sherlock murmured happily against his skin.

The headache slowly gave way to a deep and dreamless slumber, induced by Sherlock's steady heartbeat as he held on to him as if he couldn't quite believe that he would stay.


	7. Chapter Seven

When John woke up again he felt much better. He also felt two lips nibbling at the inner wrist of his left hand. It tickled and made his skin prickle. With a sigh he tried to snuggle closer to Sherlock, but was prevented by his own arm being in the way.

"What are you doing?" he asked amused.

"Breakfast," Sherlock answered with a smile.

"I didn't know you had an oral fixation," John grinned and finally opened his eyes. He shuddered when Sherlock slowly drew his teeth over the sensitive skin on his wrist.

"I didn't know either," he commented, licking his lips as if he was done feeding off John.

Both of them giggled and John finally pulled his arm away and attached himself fully to Sherlock again. The fever was down, but he had always been warm. "Sherlock, let's go away somewhere."

"Somewhere?" Sherlock asked and John had to smile as he felt his voice rumble in his chest.

"Yes, somewhere. Anywhere. At least somewhere away from here, from Moriarty, from the cold."

"Vauxhall?" Sherlock suggested, giggling even before John did.

"I though more along the lines of another continent? Or at least Venice?"

Sherlock started nibbling on his throat, and he couldn't suppress a shudder.

"Rome?"

Sherlock bit him gently and then lapped his tongue over the spot.

"Paris?"

His ear. Oh god, he was sucking on his earlobe.

"Ah ... Amsterdam?" He was sure that Sherlock was just doing this to render him speechless, and he was succeeding at a frightening speed.

"Winchester?"

Sherlock stopped and detached himself from John. The tiny voice in John's head was celebrating the fact that he had managed to surprise him, but a bigger part of him was missing that talented tongue on his ear.

"Winchester?" Sherlock repeated as if he wasn't sure that he had heard him right.

"Yes, have you ever been? It's quite lovely."

"No, actually I haven't. Too few people, no interesting cases ..."

"Sounds perfect, no?"

"No."

"Sherlock!"

"You don't want me to get bored, do you?"

John smiled and let his hands slide over Sherlock's back and down. The grunt that he drew from Sherlock made him grin. "Oh, I'm sure I could keep you entertained."

A deep sigh was followed by a few moments of silence before Sherlock started kissing him again.

"Alright, Winchester it is then." John smiled and started squeezing Sherlock's buttocks until he had to give up the kissing in favour of breathing.

Sherlock decided that he felt weak and squeamish as soon as it came to making breakfast. Fine, John thought, they'd just stick to toast then.

"Sherlock, go and take a shower, will you?" John had showered after they had gotten up. Sherlock had only donned his pyjama bottoms and grabbed a ratty t-shirt from a chair, not even bothering with his dressing gown. He now sat in his chair, arms crossed over his drawn up knees, his toes drumming a rapid rhythm against the leather, with the rest of his body remaining completely still. He was watching him, John realised, heat rising to his face.

"What?" he asked when Sherlock didn't respond.

A few seconds of silence filled the room until Sherlock stretched and fluidly moved ogg the chair and walked straight into John. He collided with him, causing John to stumble backwards against the fridge, but before his head could hit the metal surface, Sherlock's fingers were in his hair, pulling his head towards him, kissing him, hard.

For a few seconds John couldn't respond. His mouth had automatically opened; not exactly because he wanted Sherlock's tongue inside his mouth, but because he had wanted to complain. Well, any thought of that was nicely swept away by the kiss. After John had caught up with the moment, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him down a bit, making Sherlock smile into the kiss. Just when John started to respond to him, pushing against him, his tongue pushing past his own lips for the first time, Sherlock pulled back.

John was gasping for breath while Sherlock seemed relatively cool, but the rapid pulse in his throat gave his excited state away. John did not dare to look anywhere but his face. "And that was ...?" he asked, trying to look as if his knees weren't ready to just give and have him drop to the floor. He was thankful for the fridge supporting his back and Sherlock's shoulders to hold on to.

"I have come to a decision," Sherlock announced, looking serious.

"Have you?" John asked, not quite knowing what to expect. For all he knew Sherlock could tell him about getting a haircut, or wanting to grow cannabis on the windowsill or really needing for John to go to find intestines for an experiment.

"Yes," Sherlock said gravely.

"Well, what is it?" John inquired after Sherlock didn't say anything else. For a second, though, John didn't really want to know. All he wanted was to stare into those bright eyes that looked at him with such intensity that he felt his ears burn again.

"I will always kiss you when I feel like it."

John stared at him blankly. Then he bit his lip, trying hard to suppress a laugh.

"This is no laughing matter," Sherlock lectured John, causing him to nod hastily as he held his breath. He knew he was doing a very poor job at hiding his amusement.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but John could see that he wasn't upset. Intrigued, maybe.

"Do you have objections?"

John exhaled, finally pulling his arms from Sherlock's shoulders, taking hold of his hips instead. "I have several concerns, yes. First of all, if you kiss me like you just did in public it would fall into the category of more than a bit not good. And by that I mean: not good at all, because I might pass out and hit my head. Second of all, what if I don't want you to kiss me?" Sherlock frowned, clearly not comprehending that this eventuality could actually occur. "And third of all, we do need to talk about your public displays of affection, especially in a work environment."

Sherlock exhaled audibly and then stepped back, out of John's reach, and shrugged. "Dull," he murmured and turned around, leaving the kitchen with long strides. At least he was taking a shower, John thought, leaning against the fridge again, trying to get over the arousal which their little confrontation had triggered in him.

He knew that there was probably no way that he could convince Sherlock to stick to his rules, and he was sure that any restraint would vanish as soon as Sherlock would say the right words or look at him in a way that he just knew would make John give in, but he so wanted to be in control of this, at least as long as they were in public. There must be something with which he could control Sherlock. He knew that he would probably listen to him eventually if he really managed to keep his cool, but he had blown the one chance he had had to establish some kind of rule a few days ago in the cab when he had suddenly changed his mind and flung himself at Sherlock. He had known even then that it had been a bad idea.

Shaking his head at himself he took a bite of toast and sat down at the table, his laptop next to him. He checked the bus fares to Winchester and then thought that Sherlock might attempt to kill him if he forced him to travel on a bus again. The train then. Not much difference, but apparently a world apart from busses as far as Sherlock was concerned. With a grin he noticed that he was seriously contemplating to please Sherlock and pay four times the price for the train than to just be practical and inform Sherlock about it. Well, thinking more deeply about it he figured that it had been almost a year since he had made any kind of decision without considering what Sherlock might think. Jesus, they had behaved like a married couple for so long and John hadn't even realised it.

He heard naked feed on the floor and sighed audibly. "Sherlock, go and put some socks on." The footsteps stopped and John could almost hear Sherlock's silent complaint. A few seconds later he turned around and went back upstairs, returning with a pair of woollen socks on his feet which John had never seen before.

"Thank you," John said just as he heard Sherlock drawing a breath to talk. He remained silent and sat down opposite of John, looking expectantly at him.

"How many days do you think you could manage?" John asked, not bothering with details, knowing perfectly well that Sherlock had already figured out what he was doing on the computer.

"Three days," Sherlock retorted. "Maybe four, but only if I can take my violin. And my phone."

"No," John answered, looking at Sherlock in a way which he hoped seemed convincing. "No phones."

Sherlock looked positively shocked.

"Sherlock, if we are going on holiday, we will both leave our phones here."

"But what if something happens and we have to call ..."

"The police?" John asked, grinning.

Sherlock shot little daggers at him. He did clearly remember that first day when John had found him hovering over the pink suitcase, asking him to call Lestrade.

"Mycroft will probably have several men having us under surveillance at all times. I don't think that you have to be concerned for our well-being. And you will not get any cases anyway, so don't even bother trying that argument."

Sherlock leaned forward and stole John's toast. "Fine," he said, taking a bite. While he was chewing he clearly realised that he was actually doing John a favour by eating and his chewing grew slower. John only chuckled and started looking for a nice place to stay.

"One bed?" he asked after a while, looking up just as Sherlock was about to take another bite of the toast. Having been found out, he dropped it back on the plate as if he had never intended eating it in the first place, managing a disdainful look. "Of course, everything else would be impractical."

"Right," John said, endlessly fascinated by Sherlock's strange mood. If he didn't know it better, it seemed almost as if Sherlock was impatient about something. It wasn't that he was fidgety, and he wasn't bored. It must have been something else.

"Sherlock?" he asked, after he had booked a room in a small bed and breakfast in the outskirts of the town, almost feeling Sherlock's urge to claim the toast again from across the table, but not wanting to give John the satisfaction.

"Yes, John?"

"You will not try to boycott this holiday." It wasn't a question. A question would have given Sherlock the chance to reason with him. Now he looked affronted instead. John grinned and pushed his plate over to Sherlock. "Eat," he said, watching a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He didn't stay to watch Sherlock eat, though, but got up and made more tea.

"Do you think your fever is gone?" John asked from the kitchen.

"I think so, yes."

"Good," John smiled and carried both cups to the coffee table. "Come here," he ordered, patting the sofa. The suggestively raised eye brow made John giggle. Sherlock stood, finishing the rest of the toast and walked over to John. He took a sip from his tea and then gently pushed him back until they both collapsed onto the couch. Well, this was not what John had planned, but he wouldn't complain. If Sherlock stuck to his own rule, maybe it would be better to let him kiss him at home and hope that he wouldn't be quite so eager in public.

Eventually the kiss grew more heated and John turned his face away. "Sherlock," he said with a sigh, hoping that he would get the hint.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, moving off of John, waiting for his next move. John moved to the side so that they were both lying next to each other. John checked his temperature again and then let the hand rest on his cheek. "Thank you," John said quietly, watching as the open expression on Sherlock's face turned into a rather confused one. John smiled and shook his head as if trying to stop his thoughts. "For letting me in," he clarified, moving his hand to Sherlock's chest, resting it over his heart.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and then wrapped his arms around John, pressing his face against his chest. "I hope Lestrade keeps his mouth shut," he murmured, making John chuckle. "I don't think they would believe him," he reassured Sherlock, gently playing with his curls. "And to be fair, it would just mean that he finally has something to embarrass you with in public, so you should be careful about what you say to him in the next few weeks."

Sherlock didn't answer, but he pressed himself a little harder against John.

"Sherlock, what exactly happened the day before yesterday?"

A sigh and long silence followed, but eventually he lifted his head again. "You want to know about the hologram," he started, not even bothering to make it a question. "Well, you did notice my absence at New Scotland Yard. I was trying to be quick, but I know you did wonder about where I was. One of the cleaners gave me a message. It had to do with an old case. An artist had planned an installation at the Tate Modern two years ago, but the night before the opening he was killed. The videos show that he was killed by his own creation. A hologram which works only with a specific gas, light and temberature. The case was closed quickly because there were no traces of any other person in the room that night and it was put down as suicide. In the end I found out that the hologram was not solely consisting of light, but also of chemicals which reacted with the light, or rather with the temperature change caused by the laser. He was poisoned by his own installation."

John shook his head in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Did he kill himself?"

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John's neck with his nose. "It wasn't suicide. The entire installation had been planned as a massacre. The hologram wasn't the entire installation. It would only be complete with the visitors dying. Someone tampered with the gas and the artist died before he could actually kill anyone. Now guess in what circles the artist moved."

John shrugged, having no idea what Sherlock wanted him to understand.

"Chemistry club. He was friends with Miranda and her little science circle. That is how Mycroft knew about them. The installation, I believe, had been called _The Three Witches_. Whatever that implies. Mycroft says it's more Shakespeare." The last sentence was spoken with contempt, and John couldn't quite tell whether the reason was his brother or the playwright. It would only be too understandable if he had developed an antipathy towards the bard, but he had to chuckle anyway.

Instead of an answer, Sherlock hugged him tightly for a second, confirming John's theory. It also triggered the strongest urge in him to re-introduce Shakespeare to Sherlock on a more positive note.

"Well, as Mycroft found out, the research had been funded by a certain individual from Dublin, but it seems as if there must have been some bad blood." He stopped talking and instead started kissing John again. John let it happen, but eventually he turned his head away, frowning. "You do know that this is entirely unromantic," he stated, trying to ignore Sherlock's hurt look. "Tell me the rest and then you can kiss me all you want."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

"Good," John answered with a smile. Again, he could see that Sherlock’s stern expression automatically gave way to a smile. This was probably the only real weapon he had against Sherlock.

"Something must have happened, because Moriarty obviously wanted the hologram to cover him so he could get away. I did shoot him, but I am not sure if that killed him. However, he seemed afraid of the hologram, so I can only guess that there must have been something which made him realise that he would die if he stayed. I probably saved his life," he continued, frowning.

"So, you think that the other people involved wanted him dead? Don't you think it could have been because of Miranda?"

"No, they couldn't know that he would kill her." He looked at John for a few seconds, his eyes dark with something like fear, but he did not speak about it. "They must have kept the installation at the ready. Oh," he suddenly shouted, pushing himself up. "Oh, I am stupid. He must have known about it. He also knew about the bridge. He knew he would fall. He knew he could. The only thing he did not expect was for me to shoot him, but everything else was already clear to him." He moved off the couch and started pacing the room. John felt a small pang of guilt, but he knew that Sherlock needed to move to think better.

"He must have known that they would try to kill him. He isn't stupid enough to believe that they would still work for him after he denied them ... something." His fingers in his hair, he stopped in front of the window, looking outside. Then he suddenly turned around, looking at John. "We need to go back." He did not wait for John's answer but started for the door and was gone. John sat up with a sigh. Next time he would definitely not complain when Sherlock decided to make out with him.


	8. Chapter Eight

An hour later they were standing on Millennium Bridge. John felt slightly sick, leaning against the railings, watching Sherlock walk up and down, turn, go down on his knees, murmuring to himself. Something was off and John was sure that Sherlock didn't know what exactly he was looking for, but he felt it, too.

The bridge had been reopened this morning after Lestrade had arranged for further investigations to be carried out. Nevertheless, the bridge wasn't very crowded and Sherlock did not seem to feel disturbed.

"John," Lestrade came jogging towards them from the north bank. "Hey, are you okay?" He stopped in front of him and squeezed his shoulder. John had to smile as the traces of the hangover were rather visible on his face.

Sherlock suddenly stood next to them, his eyes emanating coldness. Lestrade automatically took a step back. "Sherlock," John said warningly and Sherlock relaxed visibly. For a moment John was confused by Sherlock's reaction but then he remembered that it wasn't the first time that he was unnecessarily cold when confronted with a friendly Lestrade. For a second he considered saying something and telling him that he had no reason to be jealous, but he figured that he might actually be able to use it to his own advantage. "You look rough," John said instead, smiling at Lestrade.

"Yeah, and you look well rested. Life just isn't fair," heI grinned. "Are you alright, though? I thought you wanted to stay away for a while?"

"Something is missing," Sherlock cut in, positioning himself in a way that he was half shielding John's body from Lestrade.

"I don't understand."

"You wanted to know about the hologram. Well, it was supposed to kill him. He escaped. He must have known that the bridge was being repaired. Have you checked the repair order? This spot was already chosen by the text, they couldn't divert from it. Moriarty must have been the one giving the order for the repairs. It could not have been luck or a coincidence. He does not believe in such things."

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Lestrade asked.

John watched as his friend looked slightly startled for a second before forcing a blank expression on his face. "Fine, thank you," he said pointedly, walking back to the railings. "He fell. There must have been divers to get him out just as there were divers to get John out." Sherlock sounded bitter. It all seemed to make sense, and yet again John had the feeling that this was not something which he wanted to know more about.

"He's still alive. He must be."

"We don't know that."

"No, but we would know if he was dead."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in a strange way. John thought that he had never seen that particular look on the DI's face before, but judging from Sherlock's reaction, he had.

Sherlock gave up. It was as simple as that. Lestrade looked at him and Sherlock stopped thinking, stopped fidgeting and just exhaled. For a moment it was John's turn to be jealous.

"Right," Sherlock just said and then started to walk away. Just when John thought he was going to leave him, Sherlock stopped and looked around to see whether he was following, indicating with a small nod that this was what he expected. John sighed and patted Lestrade's back. "I guess I better go," he shrugged apologetically and then jogged towards Sherlock. He did not ask about Sherlock's strange reaction, but he knew that Sherlock was aware that he was thinking about it.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked suddenly, making John smile. Dinner in the city usually indicated a finished case. "Starving," he said, gently nudging his shoulder against Sherlock's arm. For a moment he felt his hand on his back and he found that he couldn't stop smiling.

They ended up in a pub; something which John did not quite understand. When Sherlock disappeared to place their order and returned with two pints, both of them tab water, John giggled. He couldn't quite say why, but he was incredibly happy. Sherlock grinned at him, shaking his head lightly. "What?"

"Remember when you said you didn't take particular care to surprise me?" John grinned as Sherlock bit his lip. "See, I knew you were lying." He could see Sherlock conjuring up the memory of that particular confrontation in his mind. The kiss had been extraordinary.

"That's unfair, John," Sherlock said, inhaling deeply but unable to banish the light flush which crept into his cheeks.

"Is it?" John asked, licking his lips. Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before anything could happen, the waiter brought their food. Chips and burgers. John laughed out loud and grabbed Sherlock's hand under the table. "I love you," he mouthed, erasing Sherlock's pout and replacing it with a small happy smile.

They ate in silence, knees touching lightly under the table. After Sherlock had finished his burger and balanced the chips against the light with a slightly disgusted look on his face, just to eat them anyway, he simply looked at John, waiting for him to finish.

"You are right," he said eventually, "going away will be good for us."

John smiled, but expected Sherlock to say something else. When he didn't, he leaned back and looked at him in turn. "And you'll leave your phone?"

"Yes."

"And your computer. Oh, and mine as well?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

Sherlock leaned on his elbows, something he had not done the entire evening, clearly aware of the sticky surface of the table. "I am. I think it will do us both good to be away from all of this for a while; regroup, isn’t that what you call it?"

John tipped his head to the side and raised one eyebrow pointedly. "Are you sure the fever is down?"

Sherlock laughed out loud. "Yes, I am sure. The only condition I have is that you let me work on cases which do not involve dead things or Moriarty."

John leaned closer, copying his movement. "Agreed, but only if I get to spend some time with you as well," he continued.

"Oh, John, of course." He shook his head as if he couldn't believe that John was actually afraid he would bury his head in case files and only come up for air when the holiday was over. "It's strange, though, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"That you don't get tired of me."

John grinned and leaned even closer. "You are not serious, are you? I always knew you were an addictive person, but I figured out fairly quickly that I am, too, addicted. And it's not been a recent development. It's been there from the beginning. Mycroft knew it before I did, actually."

Sherlock winced and John wondered whether the two brothers would actually ever be able to think, speak and behave like normal people would when confronted with each other. "Is it okay that we leave the day after tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Have you made it your mission tonight to agree with everything I say?" John asked carefully, wondering about the extensive use of 'yes' on Sherlock's side.

"No, not in particular."

"And you haven't been correcting me at all and you haven't tried to prove anything ..."

"John, if you want me to I ..."

"No, God, no, please don't get me wrong." John felt strangely reminded of the very awkward conversation at Angelo's that first night. "I just want to make sure that you are okay."

"By mocking me?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to turn this into an argument just to prove me wrong," John said, their faces only inches apart.

"I'm not."

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, John?"

"Do you feel like kissing me right now?"

Sherlock's surprised expression made John grin.

"I do. I am restraining myself for your sake."

"Are you?" John's grin grew even wider, and he could see the light twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"I am. Care to leave?"

"God, yes!"

They stepped outside. It was dark by now, but warmer than it had been in a long time. The snow had almost melted away entirely and the streets were now covered in dark brown mud. Still, John wanted to walk for a bit. He had the strongest urge to go back a few months and feel safe and normal. When he felt Sherlock's arm against his, he smiled to himself. No, when he thought about it more deeply, he really didn't want to go back to before.

"Let's walk home."

Sherlock stopped and gave him a strange look. "You do realise that we are quite far from home."

John chuckled and shrugged. "It's not that far and it's been ages since I walked just for the sake of walking."

"Or for the sake of making me wait until I can undress you," Sherlock commented drily, scowling at the people who looked slightly irritated as they walked past them.

John laughed out loud. "No, Sherlock, it's not all about you."

"I distinctly remember having this conversation with you before. And again, my answer is," he paused for dramatic effect, "that I could easily prove you wrong."

"Come on," John just said, turning and walking north, not even looking around to see if Sherlock was actually following him.

The dramatic gesture Sherlock made was lost on John, and with a frustrated huff he followed him, staying behind him a few feet if only to annoy him. When they had to cross a busy street, however, Sherlock walked up to him again.

"Are you testing me?" he asked John without looking at him.

"Testing you? Sherlock, I just want to walk. I want to walk and not be afraid."

That caused Sherlock to look sharply at John. His face was open, the pout which had graced his features long gone. "I am sorry, John," he said and John felt guilty for irritating him. Sherlock took off the glove of his right hand and intertwined their fingers. "Is that okay?" he asked, quietly, clearly remembering John's remark about his public display of affection. John's heart skipped a beat and he felt silly for it. All he could do was grin at Sherlock and gently squeeze his hand.

The next twenty minutes were spent in comfortable silence. John supposed that Sherlock was somewhere else entirely in his thoughts and was slightly surprised when Sherlock suddenly stopped and spun him around by his hand and John found himself in a tight embrace. He could feel Sherlock's heavy breathing even through both of their coats, and for a moment he was afraid that he was crying again; but he wasn't. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, inhaling deeply as if he was trying to remember John's smell.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, bringing up a hand to gently cup his head.

"I'm fine. I just ..." he didn't continue, just pressed a kiss against John's skin and then pulled away again.

"Needed a hug?" John asked with a small smile.

"Yes." Sherlock seemed slightly irritated by himself, but John didn't allow him to think about it too deeply. His hand was still in Sherlock's hair and he pulled him down for a kiss. For a moment Sherlock didn't react, but then he smiled against John's lips and started kissing him back, drawing a rather undignified sound from John. The whimper seemed to encourage Sherlock to kiss him harder and sloppier as well and very soon John had a hard time staying in control. He pushed Sherlock back until he was stopped by a wall. Thank god they were alone now, John thought as yet another whimper escaped him. Sherlock's hands came to rest on his hips and somehow he managed to pull John's shirt out from under his belt. The mixed sensation of one gloved and one bare hand on his stomach made his knees buckle and he grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat to hold himself up while he continued to kiss him.

When Sherlock's hands moved from his stomach around his hips to his back and down, John forced himself to let go. He stumbled backwards, breathing heavily, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked. He seemed genuinely surprised that John had stopped the kiss. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and a little swollen and it took all John had to not attack him again.

"Fantastic," he answered instead, giggling and shaking his head. "Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock's surprise quickly gave way to a pout. John wanted to laugh at him but thought better of it. "You _are_ testing me," Sherlock observed, irritation audible in his voice.

"No, Sherlock, I am testing myself," John answered, still out of breath. "How can you say things like you wanting to undress me and believe that I'll just ignore it? You might have just said that, or you could have meant every word of it. It doesn't make a difference."

"But you were upset with me," Sherlock stated, looking a little flustered.

"Me being upset with you doesn't mean that I don't want you," John clarified, straightening himself up. "It might actually..." he stopped himself, rubbing his face. "Let's go home," he said, turning to go.

"Wait, John," Sherlock called and pushed himself away from the wall. Apparently, John hadn't been the only one with weak knees. "What were you going to say?"

John shook his head. "Never mind, Sherlock, let's just go home."

"Home means that I do get to undress you, right?" Sherlock asked grinning. John shot him a glance and kept his hands in his pockets this time.

It took them another forty minutes to arrive at Baker Street and they were both knackered as they walked up the steps to their flat. Sherlock dropped onto the couch and closed his eyes. John tried to get him to take off his shoes, but he somehow managed to make that impossible for him. Eventually John succeeded by tickling Sherlock and he managed to pull off his socks as well. "Shower," he remarked as he stood up, but Sherlock didn't move.

"Oh come on, don't tell me that you're worn out now." When Sherlock remained silent, he felt guilty immediately. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I should have been more considerate. I should have known that you were still weak from the fever last night and..."

Sherlock pushed himself up. "No, it's fine," he said. "I am rather tired, though. Aren't you?"

"I'm sweaty and horny."

Sherlock gaped at John, who laughed and walked out of the room, hearing Sherlock getting rid of his coat and dropping clothes behind him as he followed. He barely made it into the bathroom before a very warm and very naked Sherlock attached himself to his back.

"Oi, what are you doing?" he complained with a grin, holding onto the arms which held him captive anyway. Sherlock nuzzled his neck and then nibbled on his earlobe. For a moment John let him do it, but with every passing second he was more aware that he was still dressed and Sherlock wasn't.

"You wanted to undress me if I remember correctly?" he grinned, turning his head to catch Sherlock's lips in a kiss. Sherlock grunted and pressed himself harder against John and started to pull at his jumper. They broke the kiss only for the moment when John had to pull it over his head. After that he quickly turned around and resumed the kiss, gently sucking on Sherlock's lower lip as he tried to open the buttons to John's shirt. Eventually John got frustrated with Sherlock's unusual clumsiness and started to work with him, unbuttoning his shirt and then pushing it over his shoulders. Sherlock groaned in frustration at the white t-shirt underneath. "Why do you have to wear so many layers?" he complained, licking at John's lips, moving down for a moment to playfully bite his chin.

John chuckled and stepped away to push his t-shirt over his head, dropping it behind him on the floor. Then he opened his jeans and pushed them down, watching Sherlock swallow. "Still tired?" John asked with a smirk. Sherlock snorted and stepped closer again and then around John, turning on the shower.

"You are quite distracting," Sherlock remarked as he stepped into the tub, motioning John to follow him.

"Am I?" John asked, stepping out of his jeans and getting rid of his underwear.

Sherlock didn't answer but stood in the stream of water, eyes closed, head tipped back. The shower head only reached to Sherlock's shoulders where it was attached to a small metal ring in the wall. If he wanted to wet his hair he needed to either bow down or take the shower head in his hand. Now he just stood there and enjoyed the sensation of hot water on his skin.

For a few moments John watched him, mesmerised by the intimate image which presented itself to him. Then he stepped into the bathtub behind Sherlock, hugging him close. He could feel Sherlock chuckle. "I tried to think of something else but I couldn't."

"Of something else than what?"

Sherlock sighed and moved around a bit so the water also reached John. "Undressing you. Kissing you." He shrugged and tipped his head to the side as if considering the consequences. "I'm not sure whether I should be worried or not."

"You shouldn't be." John said with a smile. He grabbed Sherlock's shower gel and let some of it drip into his palm. Then he turned Sherlock around so that the water was hitting his own back, while Sherlock stood in front of him and started to spread it all over Sherlock's skin. "I know for a fact that you will not think about kissing and undressing me when you have other things to think about."

"I _had_ other things to think about," Sherlock argued, leaning lightly into John's touch. John smiled and kissed his shoulder before he started rubbing there.

"No, you gave up on Moriarty, and there was nothing else which needed your immediate attention."

Sherlock inhaled sharply but didn't respond otherwise. "Besides," John said, moving his hands down now. "I quite enjoy being the centre of your attention." He reached Sherlock's buttocks and squeezed, making Sherlock jump. His left hand tried to find something to hold on to while his right came to rest on John's right hand.

"Wait," he groaned. John's eyebrows rose very high. Was he really able to transform Sherlock into the state of deep arousal just by squeezing his arse? He did it again, earning another, much longer groan. "John, please don't do that again."

John could hear in his voice that what he said was the perfect opposite of what he wanted. So he flexed his fingers again. This time, Sherlock stepped away and then sat down on the rim of the tub, his erection flushed and almost reaching up to his stomach. John unconsciously licked his lips.

"John," Sherlock started, looking up with wide eyes and a silent apology.

"What?" John didn't want to be rude, but he really enjoyed the feel of Sherlock's soaped arse under his fingers and he wouldn't stop if it wasn't for a very good reason.

"I'll break my neck," Sherlock answered, his eyes crinkling for a second with the hint of a smile.

"You're afraid you'll fall on your arse?" John asked, astonished.

"I'm not the only one who has problems staying upright under certain circumstances," Sherlock remarked drily.

John laughed and turned off the water that had still been splashing against his back. If they weren't careful there would be no hot water left by the time they decided to actually make use of it. "Want to do this sitting down?" John offered, thinking that it would be a shame, really. He enjoyed Sherlock like this, standing up, feet planted firmly to the ground while the rest of his body was deciding on whether to respond or withdraw from his touch.

"Well, if I sit down you won't be able to ..." Sherlock bit his lip and John found himself staring in helpless adoration.

"Okay, " he said eventually, getting cold and wanting his hands back on Sherlock's skin – or the other way around, he didn't really care about that – but he yearned for some body contact. "Come here." He stretched out his hand and waited until Sherlock had taken it to pull him up. Then he guided him to stand under the shower head again, but he didn't turn the water back on. "Hold on to the shower," he ordered, watching as Sherlock stood a little straighter. It amused him immensely and he filed the information away for further use.

When he was sure that Sherlock would not just drop to the floor he squeezed more shower gel onto his hand and started again, watching as the gel slowly turned into foam under his hands. He took more time than before to soap up Sherlock's back and eventually moved to his arms and around to his chest.

He could see the jolt that went through Sherlock when he pinched his nipples, just once. If Sherlock insisted on being in control, then he would do him the favour. When he moved down, he could hear Sherlock's breathing growing faster. He loved this; loved touching him, loved being responsible for this reaction, loved loving this man. He stepped closer, attaching his own body to Sherlock's, letting one hand wander down even further. The strangled sound which escaped Sherlock when his hand closed around his cock made John press his face against Sherlock's shoulder. He wasn't quite sure why he did it, but it seemed to be the only way to remain calm. For a moment they just breathed, neither of them moving, but then Sherlock's left hand came around, taking hold of John's arse, pulling him flush against him. John gasped at the sensation of his own erection pressing against Sherlock's thighs, the head of his cock neatly squeezed in between Sherlock's buttocks. He would come if he wasn't careful, John knew that, but he really did not want to pull back again. When Sherlock shamelessly pushed himself against John, he whimpered, feeling Sherlock shudder in response. This was insane. It felt as if John had never really had sex before and suddenly even the smallest things turned him on more than full blown sex had in previous relationships.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice so deep it was almost inaudible. "John, please."

"What?" he gasped, now pressing his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades, looking down to see his cock right there. Right where it would be if he would ...

Sherlock pushed back again, and John remembered that he was still holding on to Sherlock's hot and heavy cock, probably aching with want and neglect. He started to stroke him, his fingers gliding over his skin easily, slick with shower gel. The sounds which escaped Sherlock made John curse. He needed for something to happen. He couldn't just stay like this, hoping that Sherlock would come before he lost all self control.

And Sherlock did him the favour, pushing back again with a cry, harder this time, rhythmically, and it pushed John over the edge as well. In a blur of movement and sound he heard a loud crack and then felt Sherlock suddenly slump in front of him. They both would have fallen had he not still held onto his cock, his hand reflexively moving to his waist, holding him up when the metal ring and the shower head both fell into the tub by Sherlock's feet, the hole between the tiles gaping at them.

When Sherlock was finally able to support himself again, he turned around to John with an expression which John had never seen on his face. It only lasted for a moment before it gave way to a grin, and finally laughter which bubbled up inside of Sherlock. And John found that he was laughing, too; laughing so hard he almost lost balance, laughing until tears ran down his cheeks and he saw that he wasn't the only one. Sherlock half heartedly wiped at his face as he was trying to keep himself upright, but now for an entirely different reason.

"Fuck," John said once he had regained his breath. "Mrs Hudson is going to kill us."


	9. Chapter Nine

They both climbed out of the tub, and Sherlock just dropped to the ground. He sat on the small rug, water, cum and foam slowly dripping to the floor around him. John stared at the damage. That metal ring had been firmly installed in the wall. He was sure that it wouldn't just come off that easily. He knew because he had tried. He had hung on to the shower head more than once when he had brought himself off, and Sherlock had simply ripped it out of the wall. He sat down on the rim of the tub, looking at Sherlock who didn’t seem able to stop grinning.

John bit his lip and shook his head, still unable to process what had just happened. With a grunt he looked away from Sherlock and at the mess in the bathtub. Rubble and dust had turned dark with moisture. With a sigh he fished the shower head from the bottom of the tub and carefully pulled the metal ring from it, tossing it to Sherlock who caught it reflexively. "You trophy, I guess," he commented, breaking into a giggle fit again.

"That was intense," Sherlock stated when John had caught himself again. And, without waiting for John's reply he pushed himself up and stood again, looking down on himself, "and we need to get back in."

John nodded and leaned back, scooping a handful of the mess up and dropping it into the bin next to the sink. "We better have someone come in and fix this before we leave," he said, sounding somewhat hysterical. Sherlock snorted amused and stepped into the tub. "Come on, John." So John got back in with him, and, drawing the shower curtain closed this time, turned on the water.

Sherlock rinsed the soap away from his own body, and then he pulled John into a hug, holding the shower head high enough so that it was wetting John's hair, water running over his face and back at the same time. John blinked a few times, but didn't close his eyes against the water. His cheeks were still flushed; he could feel it despite the heat of the water.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, and for a second he felt as if he would drown, drawing in a sharp, panicky breath through his nose, causing Sherlock to move away just an inch, their foreheads still touching. "I got you," he whispered over the sound of the water. Then he turned the shower off and started soaping John up.

John watched him as he gently spread his hands out over his chest, moving slowly at first, but then getting faster, moving more efficiently until John was eventually entirely covered in lather. Sherlock smiled at him, making sure that he was alright before turned the water back on. By the time John was clean, the rubble had also been washed away from the bottom of the tub. "There," Sherlock said with a smile, "ready for bed."

It was past midnight when John joined Sherlock in his room. Despite Sherlock's attempts at getting him into bed - attempts which involved promises of orgasms, of a steady intake of nutrition on Sherlock's side, and an expressed need to cuddle - John had gone back down to find something with which he could fix the hole in the wall at least temporarily. He didn't find anything, but he wasn't telling Sherlock that. For a moment he just sat down on the couch and pulled the union jack cushion into his lap, folding his body around it until his forehead was touching his knees.

He wondered when Sherlock had moved the pillow from John's chair to the couch, and the smell of Sherlock's shampoo proved to him that he had used it. He hadn't when he was sick with fever, though.

He spent a few moments just inhaling Sherlock's scent and feeling at home. He had to chuckle when he thought of the shower incident. Somehow, in the collection of all the crazy things they had done since they had moved in together, this was definitely one that stood out. Well, yes, maybe it had to do with the fact that Sherlock had ripped the bloody thing out because John was making him orgasm, and maybe he was just a tiny bit flattered because of that. In any case he was sure that it would be something that they would laugh about in years to come.

He straightened up as his throat tightened and he suddenly found it heard to breathe. Since he had come back from Afghanistan, he hadn't really known what his future would be like. Get over himself and his self-pity, find a job, find a girl, get married, have kids. The usual. The normal. This future had disappeared in his head somewhere during the first month of living with Sherlock. Life had been too exciting to think ahead much. The present had been good and sometimes scary enough to just exist in the moment without thinking too deeply about it. Sarah had been great, sure, but he hadn't really believed himself when he tried to picture their future together. But now, now he could see that whatever his future would look like, Sherlock would definitely be in it and somehow he had known it since the day he had agreed to move in with him. Only now, he knew that it wouldn't just be them living together. It would be so much more.

He jumped up and almost ran up the stairs, pushing the door to Sherlock's room open, upsetting a pile of paper which he had stacked up next to the door. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed, his laptop open in front of him, a little notebook next to his knee on the bed, a pencil between his lips. He smiled around it when John came rushing in.

"Alright?" he asked, still not bothering to drop the pencil.

John stepped into the room and closed the door behind him carefully, switching off the light. Then he went to close the curtains and finally climbed onto the bed, and towards Sherlock. In a blur of movement, Sherlock shut the computer and carefully placed it and the notebook on the already overflowing nightstand, looking at John a little uncertain. "You're not alright," he stated, his forehead wrinkling in a deep frown. John stopped in front of him, gently pulling the pencil from Sherlock's lips, studying it for a moment before returning his gaze to Sherlock's eyes.

He sat back on his heels, feeling endless seconds tick by before he could bring himself to talk.

"I just realised something," he said, forcing himself to keep his hands still even though he desperately wanted to tuck that one errant curl of dark hair behind his friend's ear. "I just realised that you and me, we are actually ... something."

Sherlock relaxed visibly.

"I don't want to label it, but I was just thinking about where I stood before all of this happened." He waved a hand back and forth between them. "Sherlock, I want you. I want this. As crazy as all of this is, but I do want this, for as long as possible."

It was almost dark in the room, but Sherlock's eyes were bright and he could see them narrow as he smiled.

"Is this a proposal?" he asked, carefully studying John's face.

"No," John said, slightly taken aback. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. It seemed ridiculous and absolutely unnecessary. "No, I just want you to know that I'll be around for a long time, and I do hope that you will let me, because you are ... home."

The smile grew into a different expression, but John couldn't really concentrate on that because he was distracted by Sherlock’s initial reaction. "Wait, do you want a proposal?" he asked, suddenly unsure about where Sherlock stood in all of this.

Sherlock chuckled and took hold of John's hand. "No, of course not. Proposals are boring and predictable."

"You're lying," John remarked, feeling Sherlock's pulse against his palm.

Sherlock shook his head lightly. "No. I do find proposals unnecessary. It's much more exciting to deduce these things."

John tipped his head to the side, watching him carefully. "If I come running into your room to ask you to spend the rest of your life with me you tell me that you wanted to deduce the meaning of that?"

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, a little breathless perhaps, but that could just be his imagination.

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Isn't that a proposal?" Sherlock asked back.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" John felt slightly frustrated, but he also felt his own pulse taking up speed. "I'm not asking you to marry me."

"I know," Sherlock said calmly, tipping his head also so that their faces were in the same line again.

John didn't quite know what to say to this. "I was just sharing a realisation with you."

"I know," was Sherlock's almost inaudible answer.

"And you have to be a prick and be smart about it?" John asked, much softer than he had intended.

"I do," Sherlock said, squeezing John's hand very lightly, but John felt it anyway.

It took John a few seconds to realise what Sherlock had just said, but before he could react accordingly he felt himself being pulled into a hug which pressed the air out of his lungs.

"I hate you," he whispered eventually, pressing his face against Sherlock's chest.

"I know," came a shuddering sigh from above.

"We destroyed the shower today," John remarked after a long moment of silence.

Both men started to giggle and Sherlock held on to John even tighter.

John couldn't stop smiling, even as Sherlock moved to lie down, not letting go. He was still lying of top of Sherlock, but he was sure that he would complain or simply push him away if he got too heavy for him.

He felt Sherlock's hand in his hair, carefully brushing through it. He badly needed a haircut, but the thought that Sherlock wouldn't be able to draw his fingers through his hair like that had made him reconsider that decision several times already. He shuddered lightly when Sherlock's fingernails carefully grazed the skin of his neck. Sherlock's favourite spot. John smiled and kissed his very own favourite spot.

He was almost asleep when he had to think of the shower again and a very tired giggle escaped him. Sherlock huffed amused. "I'll just tell Mrs Hudson it was an experiment."

John laughed silently against Sherlock's chest. "It was, wasn't it? It proved that you were indeed right about the sex in the shower thing. Sorry 'bout that."

"We can install rails," Sherlock offered helpfully, making John laugh again.

"Jesus, Sherlock. I'll never be able to sleep now."

Sherlock chuckled and gently started massaging his scalp again. "Good night, John."

*****

When John woke up he knew Sherlock was gone even before he opened his eyes. When he pushed out his hand to make sure, he heard the crumple of paper and opened one eye, grunting when he saw on the alarm clock that it was still early. With a little effort he pulled the little piece of paper towards him.

_At NSY, will be back for breakfast. SH_

Why was he leaving him a note? He could have just as well texted him. John rolled onto his back, stretching a bit. Sherlock must have moved him, because he was sure that he would be sore had he spent the entire night on top of Sherlock. He only felt a little twinge in his shoulder.

He also had a morning erection.

"Good god," he murmured, pushing the heel of his hand against the base of his cock, willing it to leave him alone. Then he turned back on his side, finding that Sherlock had taken his computer, but left the notebook. Feeling slightly guilty, he stretched out his hand and took it. He knew that Sherlock didn't care much for privacy. There wasn't anything in the entire flat which belonged to John that Sherlock hadn't looked at, read, analysed, experimented with; and yet he did feel like he was invading his privacy when he opened it.

He leafed through it, mildly disappointed by the content. They were mostly case notes, written in short hand. The only embarrassing part about this would be the fact that Sherlock always pretended that he didn't need to write anything down, because he had John to do that. The last page of the little book, however, was covered in very small writing. Not short hand, but tiny bullet points. Some of them were seemingly random dates and times of day. But the other points were the ones which made John sit up in bed, rub his eyes and hold the book close to his eyes to be able to read them.

What he found, neatly scribbled in between dates, were descriptions of himself. Some seemed rather unfavourable; _Snaps back easily. Annoying_ or _Doesn't listen_ , but others were making John blush _Says I'm adorable, completely oblivious that he is_ , _Always smiles after he stops laughing at something I said_ , _Nape of his neck_ , _Good. Always so very good._

John huffed out a laugh. Was this what he had been doing last night when he had come running into the room? Take stock on the things he thought about him? But then his eyes fell on something which made him realise that the notes weren't from last night.

_Wants to spend the rest of his life with me. With me. With me!_

"John?"

John jumped and accidentally threw the book across the room. He pressed his hand over his heart, trying to catch his breath after the sudden shock. Sherlock stood in the door, an amused expression on his face. "Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the shit out of me!"

Sherlock frowned in light disgust at his words but then smirked. "Am I interrupting something?"

John blushed, his ears burning, and he avoided looking at Sherlock. "God, I'm sorry. I just ..."

"John," Sherlock said, a smile playing around his lips, his voice very calm and steady. "It's fine."

"Is it?" John looked surprised, but not relieved. He didn't quite believe Sherlock.

"Maybe I left it there for a reason?" Sherlock smirked again and walked over to where the notebook was lying on the floor.

"Yeah, maybe you were testing my resolve," John answered, the guilt making his stomach clench.

"I didn't," Sherlock answered, moving to the bed to sit down next to John. "Shame, really," he continued, letting his left hand slide down John's stomach until it rested on his now soft cock.

John cleared his throat, irritation clouding his mind. He did, however, very clearly feel Sherlock's hand on him and he also felt that his body was willing to return to normal service much faster than his mind was.

"I wasn't thinking. No, I was ... I knew that I shouldn't read it and I ..."

Sherlock smiled and dropped the book on the bed. "Did you read anything that you didn't already know?" he asked, amusement still clearly present in his voice.

John tried to think, but Sherlock's hand was very distracting, as was his face so close to his own. "No," he eventually said, frowning again. He still didn't feel relieved. He should have asked him first. "I'm sorry."

"I love you like this," Sherlock said, causing the guilt in John's stomach to turn into something else. Excitement, shock, arousal. Definitely butterflies.

He inhaled sharply and raised his chin a little. "Did you talk to Greg?"

Sherlock's hand stopped moving for only a second before he resumed massaging him. John tried to hide the triumphant smile but he knew that he couldn't hide his pride any more than Sherlock could hide his jealousy.

"I did. I explained the hologram to him and he's taking a look into it."

"And that's all? Case closed?"

Sherlock nodded, once.

"Good," John said with a smile. "I didn't know you find me adorable," he then said, trying to distract himself from the steady rhythm with which he was now being stroked through the fabric of his pants.

Sherlock grinned and finally leaned in for a kiss. "I'm not going to get into this discussion with you, because it will only lead you to believe that you can actually make me see why you think I am _that_."

"That?" John grinned against his lips. "What does _that_ do to you?" he asked, playfully licking Sherlock's lower lip.

"What do you mean, do to me?" Sherlock asked, leaning back a bit.

"When you think I am being adorable, what do you feel?"

Sherlock grunted, nervously tapping two fingers against his chin. After a few moments he shrugged. "Helpless," he said, sounding a bit embarrassed. "I feel the strong need to kiss and hold you but I know that if I would give into the urge, I would probably hurt you."

John bit his tongue. "And you felt that way even before we ... actually did any kissing and hugging?"

Sherlock frowned for a second, but then shook his head. "It was different. I felt even more helpless then, because I did not know what to do with these _emotions_. At least now I can channel them into a specific physical need."

"Okay," John said, nodding. "Now, would you believe me if I told you that I do have this exact same need sometimes?"

"You do?"

"I do when you are being adorable." He spoke slowly, carefully pronouncing each word, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face. "But it's different, too. It sometimes feels as if my heart is breaking." Sherlock looked slightly shocked, so he quickly added, "but in a good way." He exhaled slowly and then simply pulled Sherlock down and on top of him. Sherlock had to pull his hand away from him as not to twist his wrist, but he settled between John's legs in a way that John could feel Sherlock's very own erection through his trousers.

"Are you really surprised?" John asked when he could concentrate on something other than the warm body covering his own.

"About what?" Sherlock sounded breathless.

"About me wanting to spend the rest of my life with you?"

"Surprised? No. In awe. Yes."

John smiled and pulled him down for a kiss. "I do, too."


	10. Chapter Ten

"Sherlock, are you ready?" John checked his watch again. They would be late for the train if he took a moment longer.

"Sherlock!"

A loud cracking noise made John jump, but he forced himself to stay rooted to the spot. Finally he heard Sherlock come down the stairs.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Sherlock answered with a half-hearted shrug. John tipped his head to the side, looking at him somewhat disapprovingly. "Important," added Sherlock, swinging his leather duffle bag over his shoulder. "Ready?"

John sighed and checked again whether he had the tickets. "Yeah, come on, let's go."

Mycroft had insisted on a car. Sherlock had behaved abominable on the phone to his brother, which told John that he was, in fact, rather grateful for it. He was fairly sure that they would not be able to go anywhere without some sort of surveillance and he was also sure that the first thing Sherlock would do upon their arrival would be to check for any bugs.

Anthea was waiting in the car, and Sherlock shot John a meaningful look, which he chose to ignore. "Mr Holmes says that I am to pick you up on Wednesday, six o'clock at Waterloo."

Sherlock's face didn't show any reaction, but John knew he would have to say something about that. Mycroft had sent John a text, simply stating that their holiday had been extended to a full seven days.

Anthea didn't say another word during the ride, but John noticed Sherlock staring at her as if he was trying to read something that she wasn't telling him. "Sherlock?" John eventually said, trying to break the tension.

Sherlock looked around, his expression calm but guarded. "Relax?" John offered, pursing his lips as to show him that he wasn't happy with the way Sherlock was behaving.

Sherlock, however, either didn't understand him or ignored John's little intervention and simply leaned over to kiss him. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it, but Anthea's presence did make John slightly uncomfortable. He tried to pull back, but Sherlock simply leaned in further until John didn't have anywhere else to go.

Just when he was finally letting himself enjoy the kiss, the car stopped. Anthea cleared her throat and opened the door. "We're here," she remarked, her voice not giving any of her thoughts away. Sherlock straightened and climbed out of the car while John sat back, sorting out his breathing for a moment before he followed him. "Sorry," he mumbled to Anthea, but she was already busily typing away at her phone.

Pulling the tickets from his coat pocket while trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock who just wandered off into the crowd, he stumbled forward, wondering, not for the first time, how people just parted for Sherlock while he bumped into every single person he encountered.

When they finally reached the platform, John was out of breath and a little flustered, having apologised to at least thirteen different people and having been stabbed by three different elbows, one missing his face by merely an inch.

Sherlock looked bored.

John blinked a few times and tried to find their seating reservation on the tickets. He laughed out loud when he found the numbers. "Coach 2, seat 21 for you and 22 for me," he announced, grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock displayed the hint of a smile before he grabbed his bag and walked down along the train to the second carriage.

He was already sitting when John finally found their seats. They were seated in first class, when John distinctly remembered booking second. A little unsure whether those were really their seats, he looked up and down the corridor, still holding his own bag.

"John, sit down." Sherlock looked at him, his face turned towards the window, but his eyes dancing across John's face with amusement.

"Fine," John sighed, pushing his bag under the seat and dropping into it. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock didn't seem to find that his question deserved an answer. He turned his face completely to the window. "This train might not actually make it back to London today," he remarked, his fingers drumming against the arm rest.

"What?" John asked, confused about this completely random comment.

"Did you see the loose cables? It will rain later today and the system will break down. Short-circuit. Good thing we'll be in our hotel by the time it starts raining." His fingers stopped drumming for a second, but then continued nonplussed.

"Okay," John said, leaning back in his seat. "Wake me up when we are there."

Sherlock's head snapped around, his eyes studying him with something like uncertainty. "You're not going to sleep."

"Sherlock, this is supposed to be a holiday and I've almost gotten myself trampled out there before we even reached the train. I am most definitely going to take a nap now while I can."

Sherlock looked almost hurt, but John knew that he only saw this as a challenge. "And don't think about touching me," he said, quietly, but the warning was audible in his voice. Sherlock looked as if he was actually insulted by that suggestion, clearly telling John that it had been precisely his plan. "And no whispering or dirty talk or ... you know, just let me sleep." With that he closed his eyes.

The train started to move and soon they left London behind. John had rolled his head to the side so he could now and then look at Sherlock through his eye lashes, who was looking out of the window, his body entirely still. Even his ever moving fingers were resting calmly on his thighs. John smiled. Sleep came slowly, but it came. It seemed as if he had just closed his eyes when he felt himself rather violently woken up by a jolt and a sharp screeching noise. For a moment he felt himself lifted off his seat, but then a strong arm pinned him down again. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock right in front of him, both hands now pressing against his chest as to keep him in his seat.

"Jesus, what happened?" John asked, searching Sherlock's face for any clues. Sherlock seemed worried, but he shook his head. "Sheep," he simply said, finally letting go of John. Other passengers had not been so lucky as to have had someone hold them down in their seats. Several people rose from the floor, muttering as they straightened their clothes to sit back down.

John stood and walked towards a lady who had trouble rising. "Is everyone okay?" he asked, calm but loud enough to be heard. A few heads turned, but nobody seemed to actually be hurt. John helped the lady back into her seat and was rewarded with a grateful smile. "That is very decent of you, young man," she said, petting his hand for a few seconds before letting him go. "This happens all the time and I am never quite prepared for this."

"It does?" John asked amused.

"Yes, bloody sheep everywhere. They constantly stand around on the tracks. It's been the third time this month, and you would think that the sheep would be kept somewhere inside for the cold months, but no ..."

John chuckled and nodded at her. "You should go and see a doctor, just in case your back is hurt, alright?"

"Thanks, love," she said with another smile.

John returned to his seat where Sherlock was looking at him with a strange expression.

"What?" John asked, feeling a light blush rising in his cheeks.

"It's just interesting to see you take care of someone else."

"Someone else as in not you?" John asked, sitting down, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Yes, it's quite ... interesting," he finished, obviously unwilling to say whatever other adjective he really wanted to use.

John laughed. "What's with the bloody sheep, then?"

"It's been on the news. I did not think that this would happen again."

"The lady was going on about that, too."

"Did you know that the Chunnel had to close for several weeks because a flock of sheep just happened to stand around _inside_?"

"Yeah, I read about it somewhere."

"They must have no self-preservation instinct whatsoever. Maybe they have suicidal tendencies which nobody ever tried to explore. They are also communicating over long distances. Sheep are quite interesting creatures. Collectively suicidal, but interesting."

This ‘interesting’ was a whole world away from the adjective with which Sherlock had just described what he thought of John’s doctor mode. John looked at Sherlock, holding his breath. If this was what Sherlock would be like during their holiday he wouldn't be able to take him seriously again.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his lower lip pushing out into an almost pout.

John inhaled shakily. "That issue we talked about? That needing to kiss and hug you issue?" he nodded to himself as if to underline the significance of his words, "it's happening right now." He bit his lip, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't be too offended.

"John, I'm just telling you about the tendency of an entire species to put themselves in danger and you find that ..."

"Adorable, yes."

"This. Is not good," Sherlock said, sitting up straighter.

John let go of the breath he had been holding. "Can I kiss you?"

"What? John!" Sherlock seemed rather confused, and John instinctively licked his lips. "You said yourself I would have to hold myself back in public and in case you haven't noticed, we're on a train. With other people. I'll go and see if there is any chance of us getting out of here before it starts to rain." He stood up and stalked away.

John grinned and dropped back into his seat. Was Sherlock seriously upset about this? He couldn't be. Could he?

When Sherlock didn't return for ten minutes, he felt the strongest urge to go and find him. But then again, someone had to watch the luggage. It was not that he believed that anyone would steal anything, but he had no idea what Sherlock had packed, so he did not want to leave his bag unattended.

Finally Sherlock came back, looking smug. "We'll get cabs," he announced with a smile to the general public. When he let himself fall into his seat not unlike he would onto the couch, John leaned in closer, watching his face intently.

"What?" he asked, flashing a smile at John.

"Did you just jerk off?" John asked quietly, knowing that Sherlock would figure out his thoughts if he wasn't faster and spoke them before he could deduce them.

"I might have," Sherlock answered, winking at John, who started blushing yet again.

"You're joking!"

"I also got the conductor to call us all cabs. We'll be in Winchester in half an hour."

"Great, that's ... great." John felt tension building in his stomach. It was a mixture of arousal, exasperation and complete disbelief. He leaned back and tried to think of dead sheep on the track.

After a few moments, the conductor appeared and asked everyone to follow him and to bring their luggage. Sherlock remained sitting in his seat, eyes closed, a content smile on his lips. John wanted to hit him, or snog him senseless, he couldn't quite say which sentiment was stronger at the moment.

"Mr Holmes, are you ready to leave?"

Sherlock stood up and grabbed his bag. "Yes, thank you. Come along, John."

John followed Sherlock and the conductor outside, wondering what the hell was going on. When they left the train he could see storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The small road close to the track was crowded with cabs, but most of them were leaving as they made their way towards them. Only one remained, and the conductor shook Sherlock's hand. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. We appreciate it." John avoided looking at the source of the problem which had caused the train to stop.

His frown seemed to amuse Sherlock, but he didn't offer an explanation. In the cab, John decided to just let Sherlock do his thing. He was slightly irritated, but he also knew that this was almost the old Sherlock again, so he wouldn't complain. Behind closed doors he would have his new Sherlock back, and that Sherlock would be rendered speechless very soon, he was sure of that.

"Stop grinning. John," Sherlock remarked with a sigh, which could have been either annoyed or amused.

"I will bloody well do as I please," John remarked, looking out of the window, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was quiet after this, but John could feel the tension. Despite the fact that Sherlock was probably behaving much more like his old self now, he could feel that he had changed, and that his nonchalant attitude towards everyone around him didn't quite fit him so smoothly anymore.

It seemed like hours until the cab finally stopped in front of their hotel in the centre of Winchester. John was fairly sure that the rather pompous country house was not the hotel he had booked a room in. He would have to talk to Mycroft about this.

They were greeted by name, and nobody raised so much as an eyebrow as they were shown to their room. When the door opened, John couldn't quite keep himself from cursing, much to the amusement of the concierge, who handed them a folder with information concerning the hotel and left them, wishing them a pleasant stay.

John had planned to close the door and show Sherlock what exactly his rude behaviour had done to him, but he was momentarily too shocked to move anything other than his jaw, gaping at the room in front of them.

It was a perfect Victorian master bedroom. The bed was huge, big curtains draped around the pillars which reached almost to the ceiling. The windows were large, letting in the last sunlight as the clouds slowly took over the sky, framed by dark heavy curtains. The window panes served as pillowed benches and between the two windows, a bookshelf stretched from one bench to the other. Across the room, a large wardrobe was adjacent to a door which probably led into the bathroom. Next to the door, a mahogany table with fitting armchairs presented them with a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne with two glasses, already filled, waiting to be enjoyed.

John dropped his bag on the floor and took a careful step into the room. Sherlock closed the door behind him and walked to the windows. Just as he stood there, the first rain drops started tapping against the glass, making him smile his 'I was right'-smile.

"Sherlock," John started, unsure of what to say to this. One night in this hotel would probably cost them as much as the entire four nights in the one he had originally booked. "What is this?"

Sherlock turned around and grinned, unbuttoning his coat and throwing it carelessly on the bed. "It's the honeymoon suite," he announced, turning around himself once, "or so I've been told."

John walked the few paces to the table and let himself fall into the nearest chair. "Honeymoon?" he asked, slightly unsure whether this was a joke or whether Sherlock really was serious.

"Well, you can call it non-honeymoon suite, because we're on non-honeymoon." Sherlock's grin was almost splitting his face in half.

"You knew about this?" John asked, slightly in awe, because he had not for a moment thought that Sherlock would be even remotely interested in their holiday plans other than possibly making John see the importance of bringing his phone along.

"Surprise," he said, looking ridiculously proud of himself.

"You ... you did this?"

Sherlock nodded, once, and John was out of his chair and in his arms in a flash. His body suddenly remembered the pent up frustration and want which now mixed with utter disbelief and so much love that he wasn't sure how to handle it other than kissing Sherlock until he forgot how to breathe.

Sherlock seemed to have expected John's reaction, as he had opened his arms in just the right moment and met his lips half way. What he hadn't expected was the force with which John threw himself at him as he stumbled back a bit until his legs pressed against the bed.

"On the bed," John growled, pushing Sherlock harder. They did have to break the kiss, because the bed was not only very wide, but also very high. John watched with hooded eyes as Sherlock crawled up on it, kicking off his shoes.

John didn't give him time to remove anything else. Leaping on the bed, he pinned Sherlock down on the soft surface, coming to lie between his knees, bringing his face very close to Sherlock's. The room had gone dark and the wind had taken up, pressing the rain harder against the windows. John's breath was ghosting over Sherlock's face, his eyes fixed to his. "So," he pushed his hips down, causing Sherlock to spread his legs wider. For a moment he watched Sherlock's minute reaction. Nothing in his face gave his arousal away, but his pupils dilated and his breath hitched. "This is our non-wedding night then?"

Sherlock started grinning and blushing at the same time. "Are you going to take my virginity?" Sherlock asked, his voice deep and steady.

It took John a few seconds to get over the fact that Sherlock had just perfectly undermined his dominance, but then he dipped down and started kissing Sherlock furiously. "Fuck yeah, I will," he grunted as he pushed his hips down once again, watching as Sherlock's eyes closed and he gave himself up to John.


	11. Chapter Eleven

He was in awe.

John kissed Sherlock, hot and wet and noisily, but he couldn't quite ignore the fact that Sherlock had done this for him. He had learned to appreciate the little things; the small favours he did him, the swallowed insults and the fact that he was allowed on the couch now. Buying food online and not bringing any poisonous substances into their kitchen since their first kiss had also been duly noted; but this, this was different. This was huge.

"John," Sherlock groaned, clearly a sign that John wasn't invested enough to make him shut up. "Stop thinking about this, okay?"

John pushed himself away, just a bit to be able to breathe and look at him. "I'm sorry, I just really didn't expect this."

"I know," Sherlock grinned. "It's very easy to surprise you."

"Do you think?" John asked, his fingers starting to work on Sherlock's jacket and then his shirt.

"Yes. If you had observed properly, you would have noticed my texting. You also would have noticed that I used your computer again and the fact that I wasn't trying to talk you out of it must have been suspicious."

John grinned sheepishly. "And here I was hoping I'd finally turned you into a normal person."

"Ah, boring," Sherlock said, "but you absolutely delivered."

"I what?" John frowned and stopped fighting with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt for a moment.

"I know you quite well. I knew how you would react and you did exactly what I expected you would do."

"Is this supposed to be a compliment?" John asked, pushing himself up until he was sitting on Sherlock rather than lying.

"No," Sherlock answered, the look on his face almost arrogant.

John let go of him completely, looking down at the face he loved so much but which was now entirely confusing. "What are you doing?" John asked. He could feel frustration slowly replacing the giddy feeling which Sherlock's revelation had set free in him.

"I'm forcing your system to release adrenaline," Sherlock answered calmly.

John looked down on him with wide eyes. "You're enjoying this? You're enjoying driving me mad?" Sherlock's expression told him everything he needed to know. "Well fuck you!"

"Yes, please," Sherlock said, dryly.

John narrowed his eyes and stared at him in a desperate attempt to not let Sherlock take control of the situation.

"Do you want a drink?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost bored. Almost.

John ripped at his shirt, buttons flying across the room, and he attacked his chest. He knew he would probably hurt him if he let himself get carried away, but then again Sherlock had purposefully annoyed him to get him to the point where he was now, so this was probably exactly what he wanted.

His lips found Sherlock's right nipple and he sucked, hard. Then he dragged his mouth over the skin of his chest, leaving a glistening trail of saliva. He bit down hard right next to Sherlock's left nipple, feeling him buck up. So he enjoyed being manhandled? Somehow, John wasn't all that surprised. He remembered just how very turned on he had been when John had decided to take control for once, pinning him against the wall just with his eyes and a few well chosen words. Now he did not need to speak.

His hand slid down, between Sherlock's legs, palming his erection through the fabric of his trousers. The immediate heat told him that Sherlock did not wear any underwear. He had planned this all very thoroughly.

John slowly started to stroke him, and even though it was rather uncomfortable from his position, he didn't think of stopping. He did, however, try to think of ways to surprise Sherlock. When Sherlock's breathing got faster and his eyes closed, and his hands started to tug at John's coat in the same rhythm as his strokes, he suddenly knew what to do.

With a smile, John pulled his hand away and returned his attention to Sherlock's chest. The bite-mark was almost invisible, but he returned to the spot and bit down again, even harder this time, feeling Sherlock's hands grab his hips tightly. "Sherlock, don't move," he whispered, moving up to kiss his slightly parted lips. Then he sat up again and started to pull Sherlock's scarf from his neck. Sherlock lifted his head and let it slip away from him, exposing a few inches of creamy white skin. For a moment John had to restrain himself from sucking at the mole right next to his Adam's apple. There would be a time for that, but not now. With a sigh he moved off of Sherlock, who seemed a bit surprised at the sudden loss of pressure on his middle. "Keep your eyes closed," John ordered, speaking just a bit louder than was natural. Sherlock's body tensed and his eyes closed automatically.

Then he leaned over his lover and blindfolded him with his scarf. Sherlock lay completely still, lifting his head when John gently pulled at his hair. He was holding his breath, John realised. For a moment he had to force himself to stay calm and not just assault Sherlock's body, which was undoubtedly expected of him now.

Moving off the bed completely, he walked over to the table. Still in his clothes and shoes, he grabbed one of the glasses and drank, swallowing audibly so that Sherlock could hear what he was doing. As he kicked off his shoes, he reached into the silver bucket and carefully fished an ice cube from it. He carried the glass over to the bed and put it into Sherlock's hand. "Hold this, don't spill it," he said, watching as Sherlock's long fingers carefully wrapped around the cool glass. Then he dropped the ice cube into Sherlock's navel. Sherlock jolted, his entire body lifting off the bed, a groan escaping him that went straight into John's groin. The glass, however, remained on the bed, Sherlock's fingers holding it as if it was something entirely precious. For a second, John found it hard to breathe, realising that Sherlock held a promise in his hand, and he had kept it safe.

Focus, John chided himself, knowing that if he would allow himself to let this thought take over, he wouldn't be able to surprise Sherlock.

With a sigh he fished the half melted ice cube from Sherlock's navel, watching as Sherlock tensed in anticipation. Undoubtedly, he believed that John would go for his nipples now. He smiled as he leaned over him, watching as his chest rose and fell. If he would breathe any faster, he would be hyperventilating, John thought amused. Then he remembered that Sherlock's body might still not be restored to its normal strength and so he let his hand slip under Sherlock's waistband and pressed against the upper part of his inner thigh, Sherlock's erection pressing lightly against John's wrist. The pressure caused Sherlock to arch against him, his lips falling open in a silent moan. John bit his lower lip. Taking Sherlock's pulse like this was definitely enjoyable for both of them.

What he felt calmed him down. Sherlock's pulse was strong and regular. It was also a little faster than he had anticipated, so Sherlock was hiding his extreme arousal well. Or maybe it wasn't just his arousal. Maybe something else excited him, something which would have seemed like sexual arousal, but which was an entirely different emotion when it came to Sherlock. He was excited, because he did not know what to expect. John knew that most of the Yard thought that this was the same thing, but John knew better. Sherlock could be aroused, even if he knew exactly what would happen, and he was equally not aroused when something new happened, something, which would frustrate him more than anything. This frustration was what he lived for. It was his drug of choice, his hope in every case Lestrade brought before him; to just not know, but to eventually be able to figure it out.

John wasn't sure whether he should help mingle the two emotions, but something told him that it was already too late for that. With a sigh he pulled his hand out of Sherlock's trousers again and kissed Sherlock's stomach, who moved against him, seeking more contact.

John was very tempted to dip his tongue into the little pool of water which had formed on Sherlock's stomach, but he needed to make use of the last bit of melting ice in his hand. He graced the skin of Sherlock's stomach with his teeth while he shook a few drops of water from his fingers. Then he carefully brought his hand down over Sherlock's mouth, letting the ice glide against his lower lip.

The effect was rather impressive. Sherlock's whole body went rigid and then started shaking. A second later a moan made John hope that he wouldn't come in his pants just from the noises Sherlock made. He pressed the ice along Sherlock's upper lip now. It was almost entirely melted, and Sherlock's breath left his mouth in sharp little gasps. When the last of the ice had turned into water in the corner of his mouth, Sherlock's tongue carefully licked at John's fingers. With a swift move, John pulled his hand away and replaced it with his mouth.

Sherlock kissed him back as if he had waited days and days for the opportunity, but something told John that Sherlock's mind was still not over the fact that he had teased his lips and not his nipples. He smiled into the kiss, knowing that he was betraying his pride, but finding that he didn't care.

Time to find out something else about Sherlock. If he wanted his virginity taken, John would make damn sure that the road there was long and satisfactory.

He stood again and started to undress. Sherlock seemed to calm down, as his breathing slowed somewhat, but he was still very hard and equally alert. One day he would rob Sherlock of all of his senses except for touch, just to see how fast he could make him lose control. The thought forced an unconscious groan out of him and Sherlock jerked, lightly, but still obvious to John.

He dropped his pants and took off his socks, trying to take his time but unable to slow himself down. He was entirely naked when he joined Sherlock on the bed again. The glass in Sherlock's hand was shaking lightly.

"Sherlock, love, don't move," he whispered, watching as his cheeks turned red under the scarf. The endearment had been unconscious, but it burned on John's lips like the kiss they had just shared. He knelt over him again, hovering just over the impressive bulge in Sherlock's black trousers. For a second John imagined him in jeans and a jumper, but somehow the image seemed absurd. Maybe one day he'd make him dress up and then he would see how the great Sherlock Holmes, always dressed to the nick, and the bored Sherlock Holmes, dressed in his pyjamas and the dressing gown might possibly be joined by a Sherlock Holmes who dressed like a normal person. Somehow the thought of peeling him out of a jumper was strangely appealing.

Then he started to moan. He tried not to overdo it, but as soon as he started he was having way too much fun with it, so he leaned down on one hand, making sure that Sherlock could not only hear, but feel his pleasure without touching him. He gently rocked his hips, creating a rhythm which Sherlock's breathing seemed to follow readily. "Sherlock, I wish you would touch me right now," he breathed against his lips, realising that he was turning himself on in the process. His left hand, the one of which Sherlock undoubtedly thought was touching him was resting on John's hip.

For a moment John thought that maybe Sherlock would see through his game, considering that he usually sounded much less coherent when it came to voicing his thoughts in bed, but he didn't have to worry. Sherlock's body was straining towards him, and John watched, fascinated. Sherlock badly wanted to be touched, but he didn't dare do anything, not having been given permission. John leaned down further, his lips almost touching Sherlock's now, the needy sounds not quite forced. He whimpered, watching as Sherlock's lips twitched, his jaw straining with the barely concealed need for a kiss.

"I'm close," John gasped, "God, I'm about to ... fuck!" and he came. Well, Sherlock did. John just pretended to. He watched in absolute awe as Sherlock's hips bucked up, the muscles in his stomach contracting again and again and he came, untouched and still half clothed.

It was the single most erotic thing John had ever seen.

He exhaled loudly, pressing a short kiss against Sherlock's lips, and then moved away, out of reach. Sherlock needed a few minutes until his breathing had slowed down again. Every now and then a shudder ran through Sherlock's body, making John's cock twitch as if in answer to a call.

Finally, Sherlock's unoccupied hand came to rest on his stomach in the attempt to wipe away John's cum. John bit his lower lip as Sherlock stilled, his fingers resting irritated just below his chest. John didn't know whether he was still slow because of his orgasm or whether he just believed that John's cum had ended up elsewhere, but his hand moved up to his chest and then down to his lower stomach. All he found was a bit of water from his navel. Only then did he push the scarf away from his eyes, blinking a few times in the half light before he looked down on himself. Nothing.

John took the other glass from the table and drank, watching as Sherlock's irritation turned into certainty as he looked at John, naked and still very much aroused, sipping champagne.

"Surprise," John said giddily when Sherlock didn't react.

Sherlock stared, he simply stared. John found himself short of breath once again, but this time he didn't care whether Sherlock wanted to make him react in any particular way. He had won this round, and he had truly managed to surprise Sherlock. Twice.

"Fuck." Sherlock groaned, dropping his head and carefully placing a hand on his now soft cock.

John giggled at the expletive. Sherlock never cursed if it wasn't during a case when he needed to act normal in order to drag information out of witnesses or potential suspects.

"You're welcome," John said happily, taking another sip from the glass.

Sherlock looked rather irritated at that and then sat up. "I didn't pack any other trousers," he said, sounding somewhat in awe at his own lack in consideration.

John burst out laughing and put the glass down on the table. Then he moved back to the bed and climbed on it. "You like being ordered around, don't you?" he asked, gently taking the glass out of Sherlock's hand. Freed from the burden, he stretched his fingers and then cracked his knuckles.

"I like being ordered around by you," Sherlock remarked drily. "But not always," he added, making sure that John's desperate attempts at making him buy milk or beans would not be fruitful.

"We can have your trousers cleaned," John said with a sweet smile. "And I really don't mind you wandering about in pants all day," he added, cupping Sherlock's face and carefully setting the glass to his lips. Sherlock swallowed and then shook his head, his eyes moving to the window. "The other guests might, though," he offered thoughtfully.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure we'll find someone who'll have your trousers cleaned and as good as new by tomorrow morning.

"Right," Sherlock sighed, a lopsided grin taking over his features. "John, that was really ..."

John smiled, carefully opening Sherlock's trousers. "Yes?"

"Not everyone would do such a thing, right?"

"What?"

"It's not something that happens in a normal relationship, does it? You never did that with Sarah, did you?"

John's heart skipped a beat. "No, Sherlock, no. I didn't do anything like this with Sarah. I don’t know about other people; but I certainly haven’t done anything like this before."

"Okay," Sherlock said, satisfied that his lack of experience in the field didn't mean anything.

"Okay," John affirmed, smiling at Sherlock.

"John, can I possibly do anything to help you relax a little?" The wolfish grin on his face made John forget that he was supposed to want to be in charge.

John closed his eyes and waited.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Sherlock was incredibly gentle. John had expected him to be rough, just like he himself had been, but instead he was pushed down gently on the bed just to be showered with kisses. When Sherlock slowly licked and kissed his way south, John remembered that he had not practiced on Sherlock as he had promised. Instead, Sherlock was about to get to work on him yet again, and by god, he couldn't wait to feel those lips on him.

But Sherlock took his time, resting his chin on John's hipbone, making John squirm just a bit, and smiled. "You're okay with this, right?" he asked, his eyes indicating that he meant the hotel room. "I'm not sure if are fond of things like this. Romantic clichés ..." He seemed strangely out of his depth.

John shook his head and carefully ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. "Yes you do," he answered. "You wouldn't have done it if you had known that I wouldn't like it."

"I just thought that what you told me required a bit more than sarcasm for an answer." He chewed on his lip, and John shifted beneath him as the movement of his jaw sent little sparks of red heat right into his cock. "Please be patient with me," Sherlock then said quietly, avoiding John's eyes. And John really wanted to feel Sherlock's lips on him, but he couldn't just pretend that this wasn't something which he had never even dared to hope for. It wasn't simply an apology for all the things he had done in the past which had driven him mad, by accident or full intent, but it was also an expression of gratitude that he had stayed and that he was still there and that he planned on staying. And it was a pledge, a pledge to become a better man for him.

John sat up and forcefully pulled Sherlock into his arms. Realising what John was doing, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, burring his face in his neck as he sat in his lap. John smiled and ran his fingers over his back. "I couldn't think of anything that would make me want to leave you. Even if one day you'd decide that you can't stand me anymore, I'd still stay, and I'd annoy the hell out of you. You're not getting rid of me, especially now. But if you want to make sure that I'll not change my mind, getting milk now and then ..." Sherlock laughed silently, his whole body shaking. He leaned back, his eyes a clear green in the weak light of the room.

John smiled and gently touched his nose to Sherlock's. "We should get you out of those trousers," he said quietly, kissing Sherlock's right cheek. He felt Sherlock's eye lashes against his skin, a light tickle whose innocence took his breath away. "I would have never imagined that anyone would do something like this for me," he smiled, moving over to Sherlock's left cheek, "especially not someone who would usually consider all of this a waste of time and resources." Sherlock frowned against John's face and John chuckled. "But somehow this man is really very different from what he made everyone believe." He kissed his nose and smiled as the root of Sherlock's nose crinkled. He had seen that happen so many times. When Sherlock was disgusted, when he was cold, when he pretended to not understand something, or when he stood up after he had fallen as if to show that nothing had happened, but he had never crinkled his nose at anything John had done or said, and John knew that he had discovered something new about him yet again. "And this man," he continued, almost unable to keep from smiling widely, "is really very _very_..." he stopped, watching as Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously at the certain knowledge that 'adorable' would follow, "kissable," he finished, gently tugging at Sherlock's hair to raise his chin and ghost his lips over Sherlock's.

Sherlock shuddered in his arms. "God, Sherlock, did I ever say thank you for being patient with me?"

Sherlock leaned back again, frowning at John.

"With you? Why?"

John bit his lip and shook his head lightly. "Because you were feeling things long before I did and you were never irritated by it. I don't think I would have had the self-restraint."

Sherlock grinned, his face open and happy. "You know that it was so much more exciting like this. For me, not knowing is so much better than forcing something. I knew I would have scared you away. I told you that. But I also knew that you would eventually come to terms with your feelings."

"You know you're irresistible," John stated, remembering how easily Sherlock could wrap people around his little finger. He probably had caused a lot more broken hearts than he was aware of.

"Not with you," Sherlock answered, nudging his nose against John's cheek. "I knew I couldn't fool you. You would have seen right through my attempts and thought I was experimenting with you, or worse, playing with you. You've seen me do that too often so you would have recognised my motivation before I would have had a chance to make you see why I was doing it." His cheeks were flushed, and John pressed his lips against Sherlock's ear. "Thank you."

Sherlock kissed John's chin and then moved down to his neck, gently biting him at his pulse point, making John shiver. One hand came up from John's back and he carefully rested his palm against the nape of his neck, making John smile. "Why do you like it so much?"

Sherlock huffed and moved his hand down so that his fingers were gently tickling the tiny hairs that grew there, causing John to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. "I like it because it is both one of your most vulnerable and at the same time most important body-parts. I could bring you to orgasm without touching any other part of your body, but I could also kill you. It's enticing. It excites me that it's always accessible. You rarely wear scarves and even if you put your collar up, it doesn't quite cover it. Even in uniform, and under a helmet, it's always bare."

John leaned back, looking Sherlock in the face. "Do you really think you could make me come just by touching my neck?" He ignored the killing part of Sherlock's admission.

"Obviously. Although _touching_ would have to be considered a term open for interpretation."

John laughed. "Well, you're probably right. Although I didn't know that I could make you come without any touching at all," he grinned, feeling suddenly very proud of himself. He saw Sherlock's cheeks flush, but he held his gaze. "I'm just a little overwhelmed by you, that is all."

"By me? Or by sex in general?"

"By having sex with you."

John grinned. He knew that he wasn't much better off than Sherlock, but somehow it was hugely flattering to know that it was his doing. Sherlock was losing control on a regular basis and it was his fault. Suddenly he felt the need to confess his own weakness.

"After the kiss in the kitchen, you know, the one before you were called out to White City," he started, feeling his heart contract when the thought about the fact that this had been the beginning of events which he would give a lot for to forget. "I'm sorry that I locked myself in. I didn't mean to. I just wasn't able to handle wanting you so much ..."

"I know," Sherlock said quietly.

"I felt so immature about it, but I couldn't face you. I wouldn't have known how to handle it all, and I really didn’t think that sex was something you did."

Sherlock's cheeks somehow turned even redder. "Well, I didn't. I mean, before you ..." He took a deep breath. "But I'm glad that you did not let yourself be discouraged by that."

They both smiled at each other, and John realised that even though he had felt terribly embarrassed quite a lot since he discovered his feelings for Sherlock, he knew that he couldn't really hide anything from him anyway.

"I wasn't aware that this kind of stimulation would suffice to bring me to orgasm," Sherlock stated, probably already re-evaluating his knowledge on the subject.

"You could delete that information and then I could surprise you again," John grinned, lazily stroking himself. Sherlock gave him a disapproving look, but took a double take when he saw what John was doing. He swatted John's hand away, but then moved off the bed to finally get out of his trousers. "Stop doing that," he pouted when John's hand slowly sneaked back between his legs.

"Make me," John answered, smiling sweetly at him.

For a moment Sherlock just stood there, his soiled trousers in one hand, the other hand extended in midair in a gesture which John had identified as Sherlock trying to calm himself. When John's hand firmly wrapped itself around his cock again, Sherlock growled and leaped at John, pushing him into the mattress. He grabbed his wrists and pinned him down while he sat on his John's stomach, pressing his thighs together to take his breath away. It worked. John stopped breathing altogether only to let out a small squeal when Sherlock pressed harder.

Sherlock did loosen his grip on John after a few seconds, having shown him what to expect if he didn't listen and moved down just so much that John's erection was pressing against his arse. John couldn't keep his eyes open. Sherlock looked absolutely beautiful on top of him. His eyes were blazing, his lips parted lightly to let out small growling sounds which he probably didn't even realise he was making, his hair all over the place, the muscles in his chest tight, the love bites on his collar bone and his chest so very visible; God, he would never be able to forget this, and even as he closed his eyes he still saw him like this; so very different from how everyone else knew him.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was very deep and very soft and by god it was doing things to John's stomach.

"What?" he gasped, forcing his eyes open again.

Sherlock just smiled, and then leaned down to crush their lips together. John kissed him back, raising his head a little to show Sherlock that even if he was pinned down, he wouldn't just succumb to Sherlock. He felt the strain in the muscles of his neck as he pushed harder, feeling Sherlock tighten his grip on his wrists again while he moved even further down, bringing their cocks together. Sherlock was hard again, but John wasn't surprised. He did drop his head back, though, to catch his breath and relax his muscles, but Sherlock leaned down further and kissed him just as passionately as before. Only when they both tasted blood did he pull back, looking somewhat taken aback.

John couldn't tell whose blood it was. His lips were burning where Sherlock's teeth had worried them, but he knew that he had bitten Sherlock, too. Sherlock licked his lips, but after a few seconds John could see a crimson pearl seep from a small cut in his lower lip. "I'm sorry," he whispered, watching as Sherlock's eyes narrowed with amusement. "If we keep doing this I'll look like I got into a fight during our holiday. What is Mrs Hudson going to think?"

John giggled, but it died away when he pulled his left hand free from Sherlock's grip to stop the blood from running down Sherlock's lip and onto his chin. Instead, he smeared it along Sherlock's lower lip, his breath catching as he realised how wrong this was, and how much it fascinated him. Another drop started to form, and John's thumb painted his upper lip red. He couldn't quite stop staring because of how utterly beautiful it looked against the pale skin and dark curls and icy blue eyes. "Fuck," he whispered, before sucking his thumb into his mouth, tasting Sherlock's blood again.

Sherlock smiled, stretching the cut and causing more blood to seep out. He licked it away and John groaned against his will.

"This is so wrong," John whispered as Sherlock leaned down to kiss him again. This time, no teeth were involved, but the taste of blood was intoxicating in a way that it scared John. It also turned him on more than he would ever admit to anyone.

"Does it hurt?" he asked when Sherlock pushed himself up and away again.

"No," Sherlock said, "not as much ..."

John's heart sank. He had said that before, back in the hospital after the library. What was he talking about? He hadn't told him back then and now he was afraid to ask, being almost sure to be disappointed.

Sherlock kissed him once more, gently, just a press of his lips against John's. Then he moved further down, letting go of John's other wrist in favour of stroking along his chest and stomach, down to his legs, where he came to kneel, spreading them so he could move even further down. John forced himself to watch, stuffing a pillow under his head to make it easier to keep his head up. When Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around him, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He really wanted to watch, but he knew it would be over too fast if he did. It also didn't help that Sherlock was stroking himself with his other hand, breathing hot air all over his abdomen.

"Sherlock," John groaned, "Sh ... ah." That was when Sherlock decided to finally wrap his lips around him. The blood on his lips had been kissed away, but the cut broke again when his lips stretched around him. John could only stare. He was morbidly fascinated by the fact that Sherlock was in pain while he was pleasuring him, and he didn't try to stop him. On some far off level he knew that he would feel guilty about this later, but he also knew that Sherlock wasn't doing anything he didn't want to do.

As he watched, he felt heat pool in his stomach. When Sherlock started to make little appreciative noises, as if he was eating something particularly delicious, John let himself give in to his pleasure. Holding on to the pillow under his head, he felt his orgasm build and wash over him like a tidal wave. Sherlock swallowed, again, and John wondered whether it was only because he had, that first time, and Sherlock didn't consider other options.

For a few moments, John allowed himself to just lie there and come down from the intense feelings Sherlock had unleashed in him. However, after a few moments, Sherlock pushed himself upright and slid off the bed, walking over to his bag to pull out a case folder. Sitting down on the bench under the window, he opened the folder and started scribbling notes on the paper. John exhaled shakily and pushed himself up on his elbows. "Please don't tell me you only brought cases which involve sex," John said, seeing that Sherlock was still hard, but not as hard as he had been a few minutes ago.

"John," Sherlock interrupted his thoughts. "I finally have the chance to understand all of this. And before you start to think that I might be using you ... well, in a way I am, but not in the way that you think, I'm not using the course of events to come to conclusions, I merely recreate certain chemical balances in my body to see how an action could trigger certain reactions."

John dropped back on the bed. "You're such a romantic," he remarked with a small smile.

"You're not upset?"

"Yes I am, but I am too thoroughly fucked to let it show."

"I didn't technically ..."

John laughed and sat up with some difficulty. "You know as well as I do that nothing I could say would stop you."

"Do I?" Sherlock asked with a small smile and turned his concentration back to the file. John watched as he grew soft again in slight disappointment. But they weren't really in a hurry to do anything. Sherlock could scribble down notes as much as he wanted to; he would still wrap himself around John when it was time to sleep. So John got up eventually and had a shower. He couldn't suppress a giggle once he turned on the water and he could hear a quiet, disapproving cough from the bedroom. He wondered if Mrs Hudson would use the week to check on the damage that had been done since the both of them had moved into the flat. She would probably have a heart attack once she really took stock.

When he stepped out of the shower he remembered that he had expected Sherlock to check for any bugs. The thought that any of their previous activities had been recorded in any way made his face burn. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Do you think Mycroft is listening in on us?" He walked out, a towel loosely around his hips, smiling as he could see Sherlock stealing a glance when he pretended to look away. He stretched his neck, feeling slightly sore from earlier.

"If he is I'm going to kill him," Sherlock said calmly, closing the folder in his hands and putting it down by his feet. "Can you buy me a pair of trousers?"

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock while he fished for clean underwear in his duffle bag. "I thought we would just..."

"I didn't think, John. I might need a pair that is actually useful for hiking."

"What was that?" John asked amused, watching as Sherlock raised his chin a little.

"I did not anticipate that I might actually leave the room to take a look at the scenery."

"But you run around London in your dress pants all the time."

"But this isn't London, is it? I'll attract too much attention. I should just buy a pair of jeans or corduroy."

John stared at him. Sherlock always attracted attention. He was made to attract attention. Everything about him drew all eyes towards him like a magnet. But jeans? He still couldn't quite picture Sherlock in blue-jeans. And corduroy? Impossible.

"Problem?"

"You want me to buy you a pair of trousers?"

"Indeed."

"Now?"

"If any of the shops are still open. It's barely 4 o'clock, so if you leave now you could still find a decent pair."

"It's raining, remember?"

"You're still wet from the shower."

"Sherlock!"

"I promise to warm you up after," Sherlock said with a hopeful and perfectly innocent smile.

"Bastard," John murmured as he pulled up his jeans. "How will I know what size you have?"

Sherlock smiled and handed him a small scrap of paper. "This should do nicely. It won't be tailored, but I'm sure you'll find something.

Shaking his head at himself for letting Sherlock manipulate him into venturing out into the rain, John zipped up his coat and glowered at him. "If I catch a cold and spend the rest of this week in bed, I will seriously make you suffer," he said, hoping to sound threatening.

"I'm sure you'll spend most of this week in bed anyway," Sherlock remarked drily, not even looking at him.

John exhaled noisily and left the room without a word. Yes, Sherlock would always be infuriating, both in a good and in a bad way. He popped up his collar to shield himself from the weather, finding that he was smiling as he stepped out into the freezing rain, just because for once the nape of his neck was covered.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

It took John a while to find any kind of store that did not only sell herbal tea, books on fairy magic or sugar canes. He tried a bigger department store, but none of the trousers there seemed to come in Sherlock's size. "Skinny bastard," John muttered to himself as he left the store without any new trousers, but with an umbrella. He walked down the streets which were glistening in the rain. It was above zero degrees, and he felt something like a warm wind in between bouts of rain. Not very many people were out on the street, but the pubs were full of noise and laughter.

He smiled as he walked uphill, ending up by the castle. He felt relaxed and safe and happy; maybe a bit chilly, but overall he was incredibly happy to be where he was, right at that moment, looking down on the small town, tiny lights spreading out into the landscape, rain clouds hanging low over the hills. A small laugh escaped his lips. He had never been one for the country. He loved London, always had, and he couldn't really imagine living anywhere else. But this, this seemed healthy. Maybe one day he and Sherlock would move away from London. Maybe one day he would have enough of the buzz and crime and mystery of the city. Good god, when had he turned into such a romantic?

Shaking his head at himself, he walked back down into the city centre, wondering if Sherlock was actually waiting for him to come back, or whether he was immersed in yet another case that suddenly made sense to him because he knew what reciprocated sexual attraction was like. John also wondered whether Sherlock being jealous of Lestrade would turn out to be useful for him. Sherlock would probably never admit to it, but it was obvious. It was almost a blessing that John didn't have very many friends of which Sherlock could be utterly irrationally jealous.

John found himself looking at a shop window. Oxfam. This was too good a chance to pass up. If he would manage to find Sherlock a pair of jeans that had had a previous owner and get Sherlock to wear it, John would know that Sherlock would do anything for him. Shaking the rain from his umbrella he entered the store, which was just about to close. Fishing the now soaked piece of paper from his pocket, he asked for trousers of that size, and, unable to shake off the silly grin on his face, was actually shown several pairs of jeans.

John tried to imagine which pair would look good on Sherlock, and while he carefully ran his fingers over the fabric he was brought a cup of tea and biscuits by the shop owner. "We don't have many visitors here in the winter months, you see," she said, shrugging as John thanked her with a surprised smile. "And this weather isn't really helping either."

"I can imagine," John nodded, sipping his tea. "It's quite a lovely place, Winchester."

The woman nodded, cleaning her glasses with the cuff of her jumper. "It is, isn't it? It's small, but the people here love to be here. That's always a good thing. Nice community, you see."

John nodded and turned back to the jeans. He held one pair up against the dim light in the shop. It looked smaller than the others, more slim fit. He wondered if Sherlock would refuse to wear tight jeans. When John felt his ears turn red, he put it down again and picked up a bigger pair, which was still relatively slim.

"It would be easier if he just came in himself to try them on," the owner remarked drily, making John laugh.

"He had an ... accident, and doesn't have another pair to actually go out in to get new ones."

"Men ..." the woman said, shaking her head in disapproval. John chuckled again.

"There's lots of fairy stories around here, no?"

"Ah, most of it is nonsense. Tourism, you see. But then there are some old folk who swear on their lives that they've had experiences."

"Before or after getting drunk?" John asked, deciding to take both pairs and at first only tell Sherlock about the tight ones.

The woman laughed heartily. "You can ask them. They are down in the south and usually sit in front of their houses, keeping their eyes and ears open, they say."

John smiled and pulled out his wallet, handing her twice the amount of money that the labels on the trousers displayed. "Thank you, for the tea and the chat, and the jeans, obviously. I'm sure he'll be grateful."

"Be safe, young man," she said when she opened the door for him. Something about that seemed strange.

"Thanks, have a good night." He walked back towards the hotel, wondering why her last words had struck a chord in him. It wasn't because it seemed ironic in a town like Winchester to be told that. Maybe it was just something they said, like a blessing, a good wish for the road. When the rain took up again and stopped to open his umbrella and as he turned to stand against the wind he found himself staring at the window of a pharmacy. John burst out laughing and jogged across the street. A hand full of people were still in it, and he stepped into the neon light that filled the room.

"Are you still open?"

"Barely," came a comment from behind the counter. John quickly walked into the back and looked around, feeling himself blush as he picked out condoms and nicotine patches from the shelves. His hand shook lightly when he also grabbed a bottle of lube and he tried to tell himself that this was all natural and that these items were there to be bought and used, but why in the world did he have to do it in person. He felt as if the man behind the till would be able to read in his face that he was about to attempt sleeping with his boyfriend and that he had never done that before, because the blush would give him away. He promised himself to never pass this shop again whenever they went out, especially not if Sherlock was with him.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, lifting his head to look at him, once, only to go back reading in his magazine again.

"Cough drops?" John stammered, feeling the strong urge to kick himself for being so bloody immature about all of this.

"Right behind you," the voice said, sounding bored. John randomly grabbed a bag and walked to the till, carefully placing the packs in front of him. The man didn't even look at his face as he slowly scanned the tags, leaning back to grab a small plastic bag into which he stuffed John's purchase in a decidedly uninterested manner and took his money without a comment.

John left the shop with a quiet 'good bye' and giggled to himself all the way to the hotel. He was glad that almost no people were around to hear him, because he must have sounded mad, or drunk, or both. He was greeted by the hotel staff as he walked towards their room. Just before he reached the door, the concierge came walking up to him. "Dr Watson, when will you take dinner?"

John knew he must have looked slightly shell shocked at the formulation, but he managed to shake himself out of it and shrugged. "Eight, maybe?"

"Will you come down or do you prefer room service?"

John smiled. "Oh, we'll come down," he said, knowing that Sherlock would protest.

"Very well."

John opened the door and found Sherlock still sitting by the window. He wasn't naked anymore, but wore a very fluffy looking white bathrobe. It was warm in the room, and John wondered how, because he could see no central heating and there was no fireplace. And Sherlock was warm, but not warm enough to heat the room with his body temperature. John giggled again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then looked up. "You didn't drink. You most certainly didn't take any drugs. You are mentally stable, mostly. Why are you giggling like that?"

John snorted and stripped out of his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair. Then he kicked off his shoes and took the bags and the umbrella into the bathroom. He towelled his hair dry as he walked up to Sherlock, taking the file from his hands and planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"That was nice," Sherlock remarked, cocking his head in interest.

John could feel heat seeping through his socks and he understood that the heating must have come from under the floorboards. "I got you a pair of jeans," John said, holding onto Sherlock's knee while he lifted his foot to get rid of his wet sock. "Go and take a shower, we're having dinner downstairs."

Sherlock sighed and looked out of the window. "Thank you," he said quietly. John grinned and picked the other sock off his foot. "Oh, I can think of a few ways in which you can thank me later," he whispered before moving away.

Sherlock stood and shed the bathrobe where he was, but John carefully looked away. He walked back into the bathroom to put the bag from the pharmacy into one of the drawers there before Sherlock would find it. "I got you nicotine patches, just in case you need some," he said as he walked out again, this time letting his eyes roam over Sherlock's naked body. "And you have no idea how hard it is to find you a decent pair of trousers. Seriously, those legs of yours ... and where did you get the bathrobe anyway?" Sherlock stepped closer to him, putting his hands on John's waist, pulling him closer.

"What are you so nervous about?" he asked, his voice deep and rumbling.

John stared at him, fighting down the blush that was threatening to creep into his cheeks. He didn't quite succeed. "Nothing," he lied, swallowing as his gaze fell on Sherlock's lips. "Although I think the constant state of arousal is slowly taking its toll on my mental health," he added with a sheepish grin.

"Is that your professional diagnosis?" Sherlock asked amused.

John nodded and rose on his toes to bring his face closer to Sherlock's. The cut was almost invisible, but he knew it would break again if they kissed properly. "You should watch out. I don't want your brain to suffer the same fate." John could feel Sherlock's hands tighten and his breath caught.

"Shower," Sherlock nodded and let go of John, stepping around him and disappearing in the bathroom.

"Jesus," John whispered, sitting down in one chair, rubbing his face. There really was no going back now. He had the distinct feeling that even if Sherlock was incredibly rude and impossibly unsympathetic, he would still be attracted him, and maybe exactly for that reason.

He pulled the smaller pair of jeans out of the bag and laid it out on the bed. He needed to see Sherlock putting them on. He hoped they weren't too small for him, because that would be a shame, really. He changed into a pair of dry jeans himself and got rid of his jumper. The room temperature was just right. Not too hot, but cosy and warm enough to be able to feel relaxed and happy while the rain continued to tap against the window.

"You were out for quite a while," Sherlock commented when he came back from the bathroom.

"Did you miss me?" John asked with a smirk, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't admit to that; not under the circumstances. "I mean, it was you who sent me out."

He didn't receive an answer, and when he turned around he saw Sherlock standing in front of the bed, eyeing the jeans with a strange expression. Then his face lit up in a grin that did weird things to John's stomach. "What?" he asked, his voice sounding somewhat strained.

Sherlock just gave him the 'you're an idiot' look, and turned to produce a pair of black boxer briefs from his bag. He dropped the towel and stepped into his underwear, ignoring John's stare. Then he picked up the jeans and gave John another grave look before he stepped into them, pulling them up. They fit, just so. He had to wriggle a bit to pull them over his arse and John found himself biting the palm of his hand as not to make embarrassing sounds at the sight, but when he zipped them up they fit perfectly.

John knew Sherlock could hear him swallow. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea in the first place. Those jeans would be incredibly distracting, and something told John that Sherlock would use that to his advantage.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed a shirt, pulled it over his shoulders and started buttoning it. How the shirt hadn't wrinkled in Sherlock's bag was beyond John. Once he was done dressing, leaving the upper two buttons unfastened, he ran his fingers through his hair and turned to the window. John couldn't keep his eyes up. Good god those jeans were tight.

"When we actually go out, I'll wear the other pair," Sherlock remarked with a smirk. "I do understand why you got these, but I don't want you to have an accident because you are distracted."

"Alright," John croaked, not even bothering to ask how he knew there was a second pair. Sherlock just kept looking out of the window, but John realised that he couldn't possibly see anything out there in the dark. He looked closer and saw Sherlock watching him through the reflection. Heat was rising in his chest as he remembered the same situation, barely two months ago, when Sherlock had regarded him just like that. He exhaled shakily and then stepped forward, wrapping himself around Sherlock from behind, pressing his face against his shoulder, feeling warm strong hands cover his own on Sherlock's chest.

"I thought of you as my boyfriend earlier," John murmured against Sherlock's shirt. "That sounds weird even in my head."

Sherlock didn't answer, but John knew he was smiling.

"Do you want to have dinner? I'm starving."

"You told them eight, it's only seven," Sherlock remarked quietly.

"What do you recon then?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I thought you were the creative one?"

John huffed and pulled back a bit, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's spine, looking down. "Those fucking jeans," he murmured, exhaling shakily. "How is it possible that you have such a great arse?"

Sherlock laughed silently. "Genes," he answered, laughing harder at his word play.

John giggled and pulled his arms from Sherlock's chest and grabbed Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock grew very still, his hands coming to rest on the window sill. When John squeezed, he could feel a light tremble run through Sherlock's entire body. He pushed his hands into the back pockets and squeezed again, extracting a small desperate sound from Sherlock.

"God, I need to stop," John grunted, forcing himself to remove his hands from Sherlock's arse. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because if I don't stop, you'll have to get another pair of trousers cleaned."

"I don't think I could ejaculate in these, they are too tight," Sherlock remarked, turning around to show John just how tight they were, now that he was aroused again.

John squeezed his eyes shut. "Okay," he exhaled shakily.

Sherlock grinned. "I do like a challenge, though."

"Sherlock, no," John tried to control the burning urge to press his hand against the heat between Sherlock's legs, and having him encourage that didn't really help his resistance.

"I'll go down and have a drink," he said, grabbing a dry jumper. Sherlock grinned a very happy grin at him. "Don't drink too much. I don't want you drunk or hung-over this week."

The bar was small, and only one other man sat there, nursing what seemed to be his third pint after a few shots, as a few empty glasses already sat scattered around him on the counter. John ordered a lager and spent a good five minutes staring into the yellow liquid.

Why was he running away again? He could do whatever he wanted with Sherlock. When, if not now? Who cared whether they would actually have dinner. Was it too much freedom that made him feel the need to hold back? Was Sherlock giving himself up to him too freely when everyone else could barely scratch the surface? Was he afraid of the immensity of his emotions? Was he afraid of taking what he wanted because there might be nothing left to take afterwards?

"John." Sherlock slipped in the seat next to him, looking a little worried. "Stop thinking."

John turned to look at him, shrugging. "I can't, not really. You know how it is."

Sherlock's features softened, but he was guarded, knowing they were not alone. "I understand that you are afraid," he murmured, almost inaudible, but John understood him. "I am so very afraid, but then I force myself to relax and remember that it's _you_ I'm involved with. You. Do you understand?"

John nodded, but he still couldn't quite shake the feeling of dread. "It's not that I am overwhelmed by all of this. I mean, I am," he frowned and looked into his glass, "but I'm so scared that this might be over again soon. I don't know why, but there is this constant thought that something will come between us, even if I cannot for the life of me fathom what that could be."

"Moriarty?"

"No, yes. No, I mean, it might just be a car that doesn't break fast enough. It might be a heart attack or a stupid decision. Sherlock, the more I let myself feel, the more scared I become of losing you."

"I know," Sherlock nodded, gently squeezing his knee.

John shook his head in defeat. "I'm sorry, I'm spoiling it all, aren't I?"

Sherlock actually grinned at him and then rested one hand at the back of John's head and pulled him in for a kiss. "You're doing fine," he said, sounding absolutely sincere. Then he took John's glass and drank.

"Oi, order your own," John complained, gently nudging his ribs. When Sherlock didn't let go of the glass he sighed in defeat and ordered a new one for himself. "Idiot," he murmured before he drank, earning a light kick against his leg for that. Once he had swallowed enough beer to feel a warm tingle in his stomach, he put his glass down and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who still hadn't let go of his glass, taking small sips now and then, watching him calmly.

"We should go and see the castle tomorrow," John said after a long period of silence.

"Anything interesting about it?"

"It was King Alfred's castle," John said, already seeing a blank expression settle on Sherlock's features. "You know, old capital and all that."

Sherlock made a non committed sound.

"I'm sure there was a dungeon somewhere as well," John said, the hope to interest Sherlock audible in his voice.

Sherlock smiled at John's good intentions. "Alright," he said, his knee pressing lightly against John's leg and John couldn't help but grin.

"Gentlemen, if you want to take your dinner now?"

John and Sherlock exchanged an amused look and then got up, taking their pints with them and sat down in the winter garden to eat.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

They ate in silence, but John couldn't help being proud of Sherlock for eating more than he had ever seen him eat before. Maybe he wasn't the only one who was nervous.

The waiter brought them wine, but they both barely nipped on their drinks. John watched Sherlock as he thoughtfully balanced his food on his fork before closing his lips around it. He knew that Sherlock knew that he was watching him, and that to watch him eat aroused him, but then again there were very few things right now that Sherlock could have done that would have had a different effect on John.

When Sherlock had finished, he suppressed a yawn and for the first time it occurred to John that maybe it would be brilliant to simply sleep in that bed. No sex, no inappropriate touching, just sleep. Sherlock nodded as if in agreement and stood up, holding out his hand to John. The giggle that escaped John made the other guests look at them, but nobody commented when he took hold of Sherlock's hand and let himself be pulled upright. When they walked towards the door, their hands still clasped together, Sherlock leaned in closer, his nose brushing John's ear. "And tomorrow, we'll buy you a very tight pair of jeans as well."

John looked at him, his ears burning and his heart skipping a beat because Sherlock's face was so close to his. He had never really been into drugs, but Sherlock's immediate presence was intoxicating.

Back in the room the tension fell from him. Sherlock opened the window to let in some cold night air. The room was still warm, but the fresh air felt good. "It has stopped," Sherlock remarked as he produced his toothbrush from his bag. John walked to the other window and shielded his eyes with his hands against the light. Sherlock laughed and walked over to the door to switch off the light. "Better?" he asked before he disappeared into the bathroom.

John smiled, his forehead against the cool glass, watching as a few clouds floated by overhead, and stars appeared where the sky was clear. "Have you solved a few cases then?" he asked when he heard Sherlock coming out of the bathroom again.

"A few cases?"

"Well, I figured you would once you'd get the hang of it ..."

Sherlock snorted. "John, if these cases were easy to solve I wouldn't even be working on them, you know that."

"Want take me through them?"

"I'm very tempted, but I think the unpolluted air is in fact making me tired, so I'd prefer it if you would go brush your teeth and take me to bed instead."

John turned around, looking at Sherlock who wore only his underwear and a plain white t-shirt. "Alright," he smiled and started to undress. When he walked out of the bathroom with his toothbrush between his lips, trying to find his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock had already climbed up on the bed and was crawling under the duvet. John smiled. Sherlock looked rather small in between the pillows and the large duvet, and he looked young. John wondered what he had been like ten or fifteen years ago. Had he been an awkward teenager or had he always had that air of arrogance around others to shield himself from being seen as too human?

Back in the bathroom, John looked at himself in the mirror. He needed to shave, and his hair was definitely getting too long. He felt like an idiot for wanting to keep it long just so that Sherlock could hold onto it when he felt like it. He dried his face and switched off the light. He had decided against wearing a t-shirt. Sherlock would be warm enough and the floor heating was still on. He closed the window and climbed onto the bed. He giggled again at the sheer enormity of it and then struggled a bit to get under the duvet himself.

Once he had managed he turned to face Sherlock who was watching him calmly. He almost couldn't see his face now that is was completely dark, but he could see his eyes looking back at him.

"I can't believe I'm sharing a bed with you," Sherlock said quietly.

"We've shared a bed. Before, I mean," John offered, wondering why Sherlock would say something so seemingly irrational.

"Yes," Sherlock smiled a bit. "And I always thought that this would be really far out of my comfort zone." He sounded almost shy.

"Sherlock, you had my cock in your mouth. I think that might fall into the same category, but quite a bit more prominently."

Sherlock chuckled and turned onto his back. "Yes, but strictly speaking it was to be expected that I would have some sort of physical relationship with someone someday. But this," he raised his chin a little, "this is so much more intimate than anything I ever thought I would allow myself to experience."

John leaned in closer, but something kept him from touching Sherlock. The initial fear of overwhelming Sherlock was back, and this time it didn't seem quite so unfounded. "You would tell me if I went too far, right? You would tell me if it got too much?"

Sherlock was very quiet for a long time, and John wanted to assure him that he wouldn't do anything that Sherlock didn't want, but just as he drew his breath to talk, Sherlock turned towards him and was suddenly much closer than before. "Thank you for say that, John. But I am in fact afraid that I might want more than you are willing to give," he whispered, his face open and vulnerable.

"I'd give you anything," John whispered back, a frown forming in his forehead. Didn't Sherlock know that by now?

Sherlock shook his head as if to clear his mind. "But I know that I can be a bit ... demanding sometimes."

"Is it because I ran away again?" John asked, a sinking feeling doing strange things to his stomach. "You know why I do it."

"I do."

"Then why ..."

"I want you," Sherlock simply said. When John didn't say anything, he moved closer and dipped his head down, drawing John closer to him at the same time until his face was resting against John's chest. "I want to own you. I want to possess you. I know it's not normal, but I really want you. I've started hating it when anyone looks at you and sees more than just a normal man. I'm jealous, John. I'm jealous of Lestrade, of Mrs Hudson, of everyone who gets to see you smile. I was jealous of Moriarty, because if you had died, he would have been the last one to touch you. He would have been the last thing you would have seen. He would have been the last one to look into your eyes and it's entirely irrational, but I can't help thinking that I wouldn't have been the one to touch you last."

John blinked rapidly in the darkness. Sherlock was right. This was all very wrong, and his therapist would probably tell him to get as far away from Sherlock as possible, but what he had said, and the fact that he meant it, made John's heart flutter more than it had when he had realised that Sherlock had organised the room for them.

He wrapped his arms around him more tightly. "We all need a bit of irrationality in our lives, don't you think?"

Sherlock huffed, but then lifted his face to shyly look at his face. "You're not freaked out?"

John chuckled and kissed his forehead. "I wanted to use your jealousy against you one of these days," he admitted with a grin. Sherlock raised his face higher so that he could look at him. "But something tells me that even though you know now, I'll still be able to." He grinned and kissed him on the lips. "Sherlock, do you remember the library? Do you remember that day?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course I do. I could never forget."

"I've had mates killed in Afghanistan, you know? Brothers. Men who trusted me with their lives and I couldn't save them. But that is far away, a lifetime ... away, but you," he inhaled deeply, "you are here. I'm not going to fail you."

John could feel Sherlock's agitation. He hadn't understood where John was going with this. "When you are out there, with your team, you have to completely trust every single one of them. You would die for every single one of them." John fought down the memories of the day when he failed to protect his team. He unconsciously stretched his left shoulder. "Here you are my team. You're my family."

Sherlock looked up sharply, and John could see emotion blazing in his eyes even in the darkness. "I didn't take an oath, but I made a promise, didn't I?"

"But that was two days ago, not at the library," Sherlock remarked, his voice sounding very unlike him.

"Yes, but in the library, when I was talking to Moriarty," he could feel Sherlock grow tense and gently rubbed his back, "he said something to me." He exhaled shakily, remembering the insecurity about everything, but knowing one thing for certain, that he needed to save Sherlock, and that he needed him. "When I asked him what he wanted, he said that he doesn't want, he takes." For a moment he listened to Sherlock's breathing, but then he continued. "He said you are like him, at the pool, but you really aren't. You don't take. You want, but you don't take."

His hand moved up into Sherlock's hair. He loved feeling the soft curls under his fingers, especially now that his hands had healed again. "And after I shot you, even then, do you remember?"

Sherlock remained quiet, but nodded slowly.

"You said you wanted me. God, how did I not realise what you really meant. You knew perfectly well that I wasn't in any state to act as your doctor and I was just too arrogant to see what you were really trying to say."

Sherlock inhaled noisily and moved John's hand from the back of his head to his cheek. "No, you knew. You just didn't understand."

"How?"

"You became rather shy and talkative after that. I think it was what kept me from passing out. Your mouth just ran away with you, and that never happens unless you are extremely insecure or very happy."

"And then I sobbed into your wound. That was incredibly professional," John remarked drily, but he clearly remembered the relief that had come with the tears.

Sherlock was quiet for a while and John almost thought that he had fallen asleep, but then he lifted his head again until their lips were only an inch apart. "No one ever cried for me," he said very quietly, and John's heart broke. With a shaky breath he pulled him close again and this time he wrapped one leg around Sherlock's, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He couldn't speak, but he knew that Sherlock would understand.

Eventually they fell asleep. John could feel Sherlock's breathing grow more regular and deeper and eventually he drifted off as well, his hand on Sherlock's waist, his thumb gently tracing the scar under the fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt.

John woke up with a start, but he couldn't tell what had woken him. It seemed funny, because over the last few days, it had always been Sherlock who had coaxed him into consciousness, or his absence, but his friend was still fast asleep. During the night they both must have moved, because Sherlock was lying across the bed, his arms stretched out to both of his sides, taking up almost the entire bed. The duvet had been all but kicked off the bed, only held back because Sherlock's feet were tangled in it. John had been covered by the sheet, which only partly covered Sherlock. Only one of the two pillows had remained on the bed, under John's head, in fact, while he had slept pressed up against the wooden headboard above Sherlock's head.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. What had happened? He couldn't remember waking up at all, and they had never really moved in their sleep before. It had usually been the opposite. Sherlock had clung to John just to wake up in the exact same position that they had fallen asleep in.

He chuckled to himself and felt the strongest urge to run his hand through Sherlock's tousled hair and to pull up the duvet and cover him with it. Instead, he carefully climbed out of the bed and walked over to the chair over which Sherlock had flung the bathrobe when he had gotten dressed yesterday. John wanted nothing more than to take a photo of Sherlock like this. He now regretted not bringing his phone, but he was sure that this could be helped somehow. Very quietly, he slipped out of the room and went downstairs.

The man behind the desk was unfamiliar, but he greeted John by name. Either Mycroft had briefed all of these people very well, or Sherlock had made sure that this place was full of people who owed him favours.

"Good morning," John smiled, suddenly a bit uncomfortable in his outfit. "I was wondering if there was a ... if there was a chance of purchasing a camera anywhere. I mean. Now." This was definitely silly, but he knew that he would probably never get to have Sherlock in this position again, and since the two of them had been behaving strangely anyway, he figured that maybe such a question wouldn't seem too weird.

The man looked slightly amused, and John shrugged apologetically. "Is it essential for Mr Holmes's work?" the man asked then, apparently realising that John would have a good reason for asking for something so strange at eight o'clock in the morning.

John just nodded.

"Let me check. He had some equipment sent over, but I'm not sure if there was a camera." The man disappeared through a door in the back and John was left to wonder what else Sherlock hadn't told him. If he looked properly, he'd probably find Sherlock's phone somewhere, half heartedly hidden away, because he trusted John not to be too mad if he found out.

"I'm sorry, there's no camera, and I am not sure if any of the shops have opened yet, but I could try calling them to see ..."

"No need, we'll have to work with what we have then," John shrugged. "Thank you so much for checking," he then added, not wanting to sound arrogant.

A little disappointed, John made his way back to the room. Sherlock was still sleeping, his chest slowly rising and falling with his breathing. For a moment he just stood there and looked at him. His face was soft and relaxed, no frown irritating his brow. He looked almost as if he was smiling; although John knew that it was just what happened to any face when it was relaxed. But he looked so innocent, so trusting like this.

John swallowed hard and dragged his eyes away from the sleeping form. Instead, he went to Sherlock's bag and carefully unzipped it. For a moment he felt giddy, almost as if he expected to find a small black box with two rings in it, but then he checked himself and opened it. He was faced with one half of perfectly folded clothes, and the other half overflowing with all kinds of things. He didn't even have to dig for their phones. Of course, Sherlock had taken both of them. They were switched off, but when John switched his phone on, the battery was fully charged. He would talk about this with Sherlock later, but for now he was just happy to have his phone. John turned to the bed and snapped a picture of Sherlock's face. His hand was shaking, and he didn't quite know what to make of it.

Just as he took a few steps to be able to get a picture of Sherlock's entire body, he stirred. John stopped dead in mid step, holding his breath. But Sherlock settled down again, now a hand in his hair, his t-shirt exposing a bit of skin of his stomach. God, he was beautiful like this. John slowly walked around the bed, taking pictures from all angles, almost as if Sherlock was a body at a crime scene and he needed to be sure to capture it in all its detail. When he was satisfied that this moment of complete innocence was captured for him to look at again and again, he switched his phone off again and replaced it in Sherlock's bag.

Then he did risk waking him up by covering him again with the duvet. Sherlock mumbled something and snuggled into it with a satisfied sound. John grinned. Sherlock had been right. Sleeping with someone was very different than having sex. He was so much more vulnerable now than he ever would be when they were both awake and knew what they were doing, no matter how carried away they might get. But this, this was Sherlock in a state in which he was completely vulnerable, completely trusting and absolutely adorable. He realised that he had never woken up before Sherlock in those nights in which they had shared a bed.

John smiled and ran his hand through his hair. Maybe he would get a haircut today. His old army cut. Sherlock would probably like that, considering how much he liked being ordered around by him. Maybe if he looked like a soldier Sherlock would be pleased. And maybe trying to hold onto his hair when he couldn't would frustrate him. It seemed like a good plan.

For a moment he considered going down to have breakfast, but then he decided that maybe he could do something which Sherlock seemed to do quite a lot with him; watch him sleep. So he climbed back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, and watched Sherlock.

His breathing was regular, deep, relaxed. He enjoyed listening to his calm breathing, knowing that he had the ability to change the pace of it with just a smile and by licking his lips. His right arm was thrown out, away from his body as if looking for John there, his palm resting on the bed. His left hand was now in his hair, his long fingers resting in the midst of his curls. Sherlock's eyes moved under closed lids, and John wondered whether he was dreaming. His eye-slashes were dark against his the skin of his cheeks and he remembered the tickle against his own cheek sending a shiver through him.

John sighed, and just like that, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He looked at John, but John could see that he needed a few seconds to remember where he was. He was clearly confused by the strange position they were in. He inhaled deeply and his hands closed to fists for a second. "Why are you not ..." he started, his voice drowsy with sleep. He yawned and stretched, only to crane his neck to be able to properly look at John. "Here," he finished, patting the bed with his right hand.

John chuckled and leaned down to kiss him. He knew Sherlock remembered the upside down kiss in the kitchen just as well as he did, because both of his hands came to rest on John's face and he held him in place while he pushed up against his lips. John felt elated. He didn't care for the slightly bitter taste of Sherlock's mouth; all he cared about were his tongue against his, his teeth which nipped at his upper lip, then at his lower. Eventually Sherlock let go of his face and his hands moved up, over his shoulders until he grabbed the bathrobe and started to tug.

John laughed against his lips and gave in, half crawling, half being pulled down. On the way he somehow turned so that he came to rest on top of Sherlock the right way around. He buried his face between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply, feeling his warmth. Sherlock's hands moved around his shoulders and he hugged him, tightly.

"Morning," John eventually said, pulling back a bit to smile at Sherlock.

"Why was I ..." Sherlock seemed genuinely confused by the way he had woken up.

"I don't know, but you were spread over the entire bed and I was pressed up against the headboard. No idea how it happened."

Sherlock's arms around him tightened again. "And I didn't even wake up."

John smiled and kissed him gently. "Guess you're only human after all."

Sherlock huffed. "Do we have to go and see the castle today?" He sounded about ten years old.

John laughed and nudged Sherlock's chin with his nose. "Yes we do. We'll walk around a bit and look at things and you'll deduce the hell out of some seemingly boring citizens of Winchester and then we'll come back and I'll give you such a spectacular blowjob that you will have trouble walking tomorrow." John wasn't quite sure where that had come from, and even while he said it he could almost sense Sherlock turning his argumentation against him.

"Or," Sherlock started, letting his right hand wander down John's back, "we could skip all of the walking around and get to the blowjob right away."

"No," John disentangled himself from Sherlock just as his hand came to rest on his arse. "Shower," he said, rolling off the bed.

"Don't break it," Sherlock called after him. John giggled and turned around in the door. "If I remember correctly you were the one who ripped the thing out of the wall."

He did not stay to watch Sherlock's pout. He was left alone while he showered, but once he started shaving, Sherlock entered, shedding his clothes and looking altogether too much like a teenager who was hung-over or simply too tired to care for anything. He turned on the hot water, and John found himself watching him in the mirror. Steam slowly rose from below and soon Sherlock all but disappeared in a cloud of mist. "Don't get lost in there" John smiled after he had washed and dried his face.

It took Sherlock only a minute to reappear from the bathroom after John had left it, and for the first time he consciously noted their reversed roles. Usually he was the one following Sherlock around, but now it seemed as if Sherlock wanted to at least be in the same room as him. He pointedly ignored the fact that Sherlock was naked and towelling himself off right in the middle of the room. For a brief moment John wondered if there were any neighbours who were watching, since he had opened the curtains after coming out of the bathroom.

John dressed slowly. He smiled to himself as he put a t-shirt on under his shirt, followed by a dark moss green jumper. Sherlock, instead of getting dressed, was still drying his hair with the towel, watching John getting dressed. He did not remark on the t-shirt, but John knew what he was thinking.

When Sherlock could be sure of John's attention, he flung himself on the bed in the most dramatic manner he could muster – which was actually quite dramatic – rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands with a groan. "Do we have to?" he asked, whining.

John burst out laughing. "Fucking hell, Sherlock Holmes, what happened to you?"

Sherlock lifted one hand and raised his head so that he could glare at him. John just grinned back, which caused Sherlock to drop his head again with a dramatic sigh. And John felt his knees go weak as he looked at Sherlock, completely naked, his skin still red from the heat of the shower, his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, his soft cock resting in the nest of pubic hair, the lines of his muscles in his stomach, stretched a bit in his position; god he was gorgeous. John swallowed and walked over to Sherlock's bag to get some clothes out for him, but just as he stretched out his hand to open it, Sherlock suddenly twisted around, scrambling over the bed to forcefully snatch the bag from under his hands.

"What the hell, Sherlock?"

"You curse too much, John," Sherlock said disapprovingly. "I also don't want you to treat me as if I am a child." He sounded stubborn, and John had to suppress a smile. Sherlock knew exactly what his behaviour made John think. He also wondered whether he was really afraid of what might happen if John found the phones.

"Fine, suit yourself."

Sherlock pulled out black boxer briefs and a light grey shirt. It would go well with the jeans, John realised and smiled.

"John?" Sherlock was awkwardly dressing himself, still on the bed and a little shaky because of it. He just lifted his arse to be able to pull on his jeans.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat up and pulled on the shirt.

"Would you mind it very much if I experimented with sheep for a bit? Later on, I mean," he asked and slipped off the bed, pulling on his jacket and then his coat. John was momentarily distracted from his confusion at Sherlock's request because he realised that if he wore the coat, he wouldn't be able to sneak glances at his arse.

"You knew that I would wear the coat," Sherlock remarked with a smirk and John sighed, again.

"Are we going out for breakfast?"

Sherlock didn't even consider answering that question, but moved to the door. "Coming?"

John shook his head and grabbed his own coat. Sherlock was really desperate to distract John from his spontaneous outburst of immaturity earlier. Maybe he should just tell him that he knew about the phones. With a grin, he closed the door behind him and followed Sherlock outside.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

It was cold outside, but the sun was peeking over the roofs and it caught in Sherlock's hair and eyes and John found himself looking at Sherlock with an alarming frequency. Sherlock clearly noticed, but for once he didn't comment.

They found a little place not far from the hotel, and John grinned when Sherlock shrugged off his coat. "You go order," John said while sitting down at a table with the bar in his direct line of sight.

"You're obsessed," Sherlock said, but he sounded much kinder than he had probably intended. Just as he turned around to go, John shot out of his seat again and held him back by his arm. Sherlock spun around, looking from John's face to his arm and back up, his eyes almost cold. Almost.

John sucked his lower lip into his mouth and looked at Sherlock from below. He let go of his arm, resting his hand on Sherlock's chest and then moved down, unbuttoning his jacket. The change on Sherlock's face was remarkable. His eyes suddenly lit up and the rest of his face followed. He grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made John fall in love with him all over again. He had managed to surprise him once again.

John pushed the jacket over Sherlock's shoulders and pulled, until his hands came free. Then he placed it over the back of the chair, all the while Sherlock grinned down on him. John could swear that when he walked up to the bar Sherlock was swinging his hips just a bit more than usual and when he reached it he leaned on it, presenting John with an unexpectedly nice view. John spluttered "Jesus Christ" and tried to cover it with a cough, but he couldn't stop staring and he knew that if anyone was paying any attention at all, their little scene couldn't have been more obvious. Just when he thought he had gotten over the worst of the shock, Sherlock pushed out his hip to one side, making John wish that for his own sake he had given Sherlock the other pair of jeans to wear. He didn't know whether to keep on staring or to look away and try to ignore the fact that his own jeans were now uncomfortably tight.

When Sherlock came back, balancing two cups of tea, John pretended to be unaffected. Sherlock played along, stirring sugar into his mug and then leaning back, looking at John with a half smile.

"So Alfred, what kind of king was he?"

John blinked a few times before he understood what Sherlock was referring to.

"He was great," John tried, knowing that the joke would be lost on Sherlock.

"Was he? He looks rather stereotypical on that pedestal."

John smiled. "You will probably have deleted anything that I'm telling you about him by the time we get home tonight."

He was rewarded with a raised chin and narrowed eyes, but before Sherlock could formulate an insult concerning John's lacking faith in his ability to remember anything considered common knowledge, their food arrived.

John had a full English breakfast and Sherlock had ordered pancakes with bananas, chocolate sauce and clotted cream. For a few moments John just stared at the food in front of Sherlock, and when he started to eat, he couldn't suppress a snort.

Sherlock looked up at him, chewing slowly. He didn't have to ask John for his answer.

"Sherlock, not twenty minutes ago you told me to stop treating you like a child, and now you eat pancakes. With bananas. And chocolate sauce."

Sherlock took his time chewing, and only after he had swallowed and leaned back he inhaled deeply and John knew that whatever would follow would make him lose this argument.

"John. Three minutes ago you were fantasising about bending me over that bar. You were also wondering just how much pressure it would take to make the material of my trousers rip while you were simultaneously thinking about skipping our adventurous walk to take me to bed. Congratulations on multitasking, but none of these scenarios seem even remotely related to infantile behaviour on my part." With that he leaned forward and picked up his fork again.

When John didn't react and remained silent for a few moments, Sherlock looked up again, raising one eyebrow. "Fantastic?" he offered. "Amazing?" He raised his other eyebrow and then gave him an obviously fake smile. "Accurate?"

"Fuck you," John whispered, unable to suppress the tremble in his voice.

The smile turned into a very genuine, almost wolfish grin. He didn't answer but concentrated on his pancakes again.

John barely managed to eat anything at all. He tried not to watch Sherlock eat, knowing that chocolate sauce usually ended up in places where a very eager tongue had to lick it away, and he hated that it wasn't his own tongue which was doing the licking.

As soon as Sherlock had finished his pancakes and emptied his tea, John was up, pulling his coat on. "I need air," he announced and walked outside. Breathing in the early spring air, he hoped that Sherlock didn't plan on keeping him in his current state for the rest of the day. When Sherlock came out of the pub, stepping into his personal space just like he always did, John could only be thankful that Lestrade wasn't anywhere near them.

"So I got everything right?" Sherlock asked, sounding altogether too excited and proud of himself.

John took a step back and then turned to walk up the street towards the castle. "Almost," he said, feeling Sherlock's presence close behind him. "I was also wondering what it would feel like if I tried to bite you through your jeans." He shook his head, grinning. "You're driving me insane, and it's my own fault. I should have never given you those jeans, at least not to wear in public."

Sherlock grinned and walked faster, passing him. He then turned around so he could look at John while walking backwards. For a moment John was in awe about the simple fact that Sherlock didn't fall over his own feet. Damn the man and his grace.

They walked up the sloping hill, and after a few moments Sherlock simply stopped in mid step and John ended up with his chin almost touching Sherlock's chest. He raised his chin to look at him with what he hoped seemed like annoyance.

"Is this were you bought the condoms?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet but teasing. John frowned but then looked to the side, and at the little pharmacy which had made him feel like a teenager the night before. He looked back at Sherlock and blinked rapidly a few times to calm himself down and then frowned at him, his lips forming a pout. "How do you ..."

Sherlock smiled and lowered his head to press a soft kiss on John's mouth. "I apologise for the kiss," he said happily, "but if I hadn't kissed you I would have had to find a different outlet and that would have been much worse."

"Fine," John said, irritated. "But how do you know about the condoms?"

"And lubricant."

"Yes, and lubricant."

"Well, you didn't hide the bag very well. I didn't look inside, but you got me nicotine patches. The plastic bag which you brought home also had a rather strange shade of grey. Three people left this pharmacy with the same grey plastic bag in their hand, so the conclusion was obvious. You also walked closer to the other side of the street, so you were unconsciously avoiding the place. You did not just buy condoms, which would have been perfectly normal. No, you're not used to the thought of buying anything which might give away your interest in men. Technically, you could have bought the lube to have sex with a woman, but you never did that before and since you do want to be intimate with a man, you felt self-conscious about it. So the obvious conclusion is condoms _and_ lubricant."

John sighed, defeated. How had he even thought that he could keep something like this from him?

"You're wrong about one thing, though."

For a moment Sherlock looked utterly confused as if he had been one hundred percent sure that there were no flaws in his deduction. Then he grinned and shook his head. "You mean to say that you aren't interested in men, but just in me." It wasn't even a question. "But, you see, I am a man, and in the case of your sexual uncertainty it does not really matter who the man is you wanted to buy the supplies for. The important fact is that you did buy them with the intention of having sexual intercourse with a man, who happens to be me."

John scowled at him and then stepped around him and started walking again. "Thank you, Sherlock, for letting the entire world know about my insecurities."

Sherlock clearly had not been aware of at least seven different people being close enough to them to overhear the entire conversation. John knew he was being unreasonably irritated, but he had a feeling that in a small city like Winchester, gossip might travel much faster than in London.

He felt a hand on his arm and he pulled it away, out of Sherlock's grasp. Part of him wanted to punch him, but another part of him wanted to kiss him until his knees buckled. It was a feeling which had become worryingly familiar. They had reached the castle before he looked at Sherlock again. John had expected Sherlock to look bashful, or at least a bit guilty, but he could read nothing on his face.

"It's not exactly a castle, is it?" Sherlock remarked when they looked down on the ruins and last traces of the city wall.

"Well, the great hall is still there, but that's obviously not as old as the castle. It has King Arthur's round table." John glanced at Sherlock, half expecting him to look blankly at him, but Sherlock smiled.

"The one with the names of the knights painted on? Fourteenth century?"

John grinned and turned to face him. "Thirteenth century."

Sherlock sniffed but grinned. "Mycroft told me about it when I was younger. He said one of us would end up there one day. It was the most nonsensical thing he has ever said, but something about it seemed nice."

John tried hard not to gape at Sherlock. "Sherlock?"

"What?"

"You just ..." he didn't quite know how to put it without offending Sherlock's pride."You just spoke about your brother with something other than contempt or annoyance."

The smile made Sherlock's eyes light up. "There were moments when he wasn't quite so insufferable. And yes, there are things which might seem unimportant which I don't delete. I just forgot; that's different. Something forgotten can be remembered." His smile faded into something like mock disgust. "Ugh, now I have to call him to hear his voice and remember why I despise him."

John laughed, but then looked at him carefully. "Too bad we left our phones in London."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit and he tipped his head to one side, regarding him with a strange look, but he didn't say anything about the phones. "Let's go and look at the table."

John wasn't sure whether he should be offended that Sherlock was actually lying to him or whether he should be proud that he was able to hide his knowledge from him.

It was almost as cold inside the hall as it was outside. John rubbed his hands together as he stood in front of the black statue of Queen Victoria which sat in the corner of the room. Two other visitors left the hall and closed the large wooden door behind them and John and Sherlock were alone. It was eerily quiet in the large room. He sensed it before Sherlock actually touched him, and he felt himself drawn against Sherlock's chest. He had opened his coat and wrapped it around John as he crossed his hands over John's stomach, resting his chin on his left shoulder.

"You don't mind, do you?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John smiled and gently nudged his cheek with his nose. "Of course I don't, silly man. And how is your coat so bloody big?"

Sherlock grinned against his cheek. "It's rather impressive," he said, looking up at the huge wooden wheel above their heads. "I can see why Mycroft was impressed."

John pressed himself a little tighter against Sherlock, enjoying the heat which seeped through his own coat. "I'm sorry about earlier." He wanted Sherlock to understand why he had yet again walked away from him.

"It's fine. I know I frustrate you."

"Yeah, you bloody well do. And you do it on purpose."

"You didn't blush. It's a shame, really."

John laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek. "This is sickeningly romantic, isn't it?"

"I could tell you about the homeless who sometimes use this hall as their toilet and the fact that there are at least twenty five different diseases that you could catch by touching that door knob," Sherlock offered.

"Thank you," John chuckled. "You always know exactly what to say to make it right."

Sherlock laughed quietly. John could feel it against his body and he could feel the warm huff of breath against his chin. "I'm glad you bought condoms."

"Are you?" John was a little surprised by that confession. "Would you have become all self-conscious like I was if I had sent you to get them?"

"Don't be silly John, I don't get self-conscious."

"No, never," John grinned. "Why then?"

"Because it means that you are actually considering having penetrative intercourse with me."

John chuckled and pressed his face against Sherlock's. "I don't know if I'm ready, but I just wanted to make sure that if ..."

"The situation arose," Sherlock offered helpfully, making John giggle at the pun which was obviously lost on Sherlock.

"Yes, in case we decided to go through with it, it really would be a shame to stop because we would need to get condoms and lube, and the stores here close incredibly early. Just imagine the frustration ..."

Sherlock grinned and buried his face in the nape of John's neck. "I'm starting to understand how my peers at university felt." He exhaled slowly. "They were so obsessed with sex and so proud and so annoyingly verbose about it. I just couldn't see the appeal." He gently kissed John's heated skin. "Well, that has changed."

"Obviously," John giggled, turning around to wrap his arms around Sherlock's slim body. Yes, a hug under the coat was so much better than having to hug the thick material as well. Sherlock hugged him back, tightly.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

For a few moments they just stood there, holding on to each other. When Sherlock's arms loosened their grip, John moved away. Just a second after he stepped out of Sherlock's personal space, the large door opened and a group of teenagers entered the hall. John could see Sherlock suppress a smile as he turned away to observe the opposite wall with the family trees of the British monarchs.

After the great hall they went down into the last surviving pieces of the old castle. Sherlock was not incredibly impressed, but he didn't complain, so John was contented.

The sky was completely clear now and the sun warmed their faces as they walked back into the city and towards the cathedral. They were both silent, but it was a comfortable silence. When they reached the cathedral, Sherlock looked up, his eyes roaming over the building as if he was looking for something. John did not even try to figure out what he was looking for and went to check the admission fees. Just as he pulled out his wallet to get a ticket for both of them, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and led him towards the entrance. John knew he looked a little flabbergasted when Sherlock led him inside, nodding to the lady waiting for their tickets and announced that they were here to pray. Without a word and without ever stopping, they just walked on.

John was at a loss for words. When Sherlock actually moved to sit down on one of the benches, John pulled his arm out of his grip. "What are you doing?" he asked, for a moment wondering if he had missed something important about Sherlock.

"You get in for free if you're here to pray."

John sat down and leaned in very close to Sherlock. "Are you telling me that you just lied to get us out of paying our admission?" He wasn't sure whether to laugh or to walk back and pay for the both of them.

"I don't see the point." Sherlock folded his hands and looked up at the altar.

John huffed and leaned back, trying to understand Sherlock. He found he couldn't. "But why?"

"I felt like doing something irrational."

"Of all the moments in your life, you chose to cheat on the church. They need the money for restorations."

Sherlock looked at him, seemingly trying to figure out whether John was really upset about it. He came to a conclusion rather swiftly. "I'll donate the money it would have cost us to get us in."

John couldn't suppress a smile and leaned in again to press a small kiss to his lips. "Thank you."

"Do you feel better now?" Sherlock seemed genuinely interested.

"I do," John smiled and leaned back, looking up at the immense ceiling.

They sat there in silence for a while, but John could feel that Sherlock was thinking. If he was honest with himself, he was glad that Sherlock was still able to do that, to just log off from reality to disappear inside his own head. He would feel incredibly guilty if he posed a too great distraction for Sherlock to be able to function properly.

This had been a good idea. They were safe and surrounded by calm. No constant exposure to the noise of the city, no sirens, no honking busses, no commuters rushing through the streets; it all definitely felt like a holiday. With a sigh he turned to Sherlock, watching as he followed invisible lines with his eyes, solving yet another puzzle.

"You hate it, don't you?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock blinked, his eyes focusing again. He pressed his lips together as if he considered his answer carefully.

"You do," John answered his own question.

"It's not that simple," Sherlock said, his face straight. "You see, I would, normally. And some part of me is begging for something to happen, a murder, a mystery, anything, really."

John nodded.

"But," Sherlock continued, "I find that the current circumstances do help me to focus on those old cases which require more than just quick thinking. I am just not sure whether this has anything to do with the external circumstances."

John smiled. "What else could it be?"

Sherlock's neutral mask cracked slightly as a small smile stole its way onto his lips. "External stimulation of a different kind than metropolitan surroundings."

"A different kind of excitement, you mean?" John grinned and turned away, knowing that it wouldn't do to crawl on Sherlock's lap and kiss him like he wanted to at this moment.

"Something like that, yes." Sherlock's hand found his, and their fingers intertwined. "Do you want to go back to the hotel?"

John sat up straighter. "Already?"

"I'm in need of more ... stimulation."

John burst out laughing, causing everyone in the church to look at him. A loud "shhh" was heard from the back of the church, making John suppress another giggle. Well, they were definitely done praying. Sherlock stood up and made the sign of the cross over his chest and John burst out laughing again, pressing both hands over his mouth to keep himself quiet. He stumbled out of the church, trying to catch his breath, knowing his face was flushed red by embarrassment and amusement. Sherlock took his time, calmly handing a note to the lady at the entrance, eventually stepping out into the sunlight.

Just as Sherlock wanted to say something, John held up his hand to silence him. One eyebrow slowly rose as Sherlock waited for John to explain himself.

John needed a few seconds to calm down, but when he could stand up straight again he grinned at Sherlock. "Race you to the hotel!" and he was off, sprinting towards the main street, not checking whether Sherlock followed him. For a moment John thought Sherlock was still standing rooted to the spot, staring bewildered at yet another inexplicable thing John did, but when he finally turned his head, giggling at his own thoughts, Sherlock was following, and he was closing in on him quickly. Adrenaline rushed through John and he ran faster, enjoying the feeling of freedom and complete and utter silly happiness.

He dashed up the stairs and almost crashed into the glass door of the hotel when Sherlock caught up with him. He didn't touch him, but he stopped close enough to gasp against John's neck as he was catching his breath.

"Not bad." John giggled as he pushed the door open, stretching up to fill his lungs with air. "Jesus," he then added, holding his side, "I think I need to start working out again."

Sherlock was much faster to catch his breath, but he didn't move for a while, and just watched John. When John finally looked back at him to see why he didn't answer him, Sherlock smiled and walked to the reception.

John leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, trying to get his hammering heart to calm down.

"John?" Sherlock carried a box in his arms and John remembered that this must be the equipment Sherlock had ordered. "Come along?"

They walked up the stairs and Sherlock unlocked the door while balancing the box on his knee. John's eyes fell back on the jeans and he grinned. It was definitely strange to see Sherlock in blue jeans, but just the thought of running his fingernails over the rough denim, to feel Sherlock's reaction, to steal his breath, all of these things made it hard for him to think that he'd probably still prefer his dress pants.

Sherlock sat the box down on the table, and, without taking off his coat, started going through it, mumbling quietly to himself. Every now and then he pulled something out; a small notebook, a box with what looked like rusty nails, and, eventually, his microscope. Before he did anything else, he pulled his scarf away and dropped it to the ground, next to his shoes which he had toed off.

"Sherlock?" John asked, not being quite sure whether he was serious about getting to work now.

"Tea would be lovely, thanks," Sherlock replied as he set up the microscope on the table and produced a small case with glass slides.

John blinked rapidly, willing Sherlock to look at him. Sherlock seemingly oblivious and pushed his coat out of the way as he sat down, lifting the lid of the case to produce a slide with what seemed like a blood sample, and put it under the lens.

"Sh ..." John didn't get much further than that before his brain finally caught up. Sherlock was doing it again. He was testing him, wanting to see how long it would take him to make John snap, probably in the hopes of triggering a reaction which involved John shoving him on the bed and marking him in some way.

"Tea it is," John said and disappeared through the door. He smirked when a very irritated "John?" reached his ears just before he closed the door. Suddenly, he felt that he had reached a point where Sherlock had lost the great advantage of being able to play with John and therefore gave up control. As John went to the restaurant and ordered two mugs of tea, for which he felt ridiculous, he whistled a quiet tune. He knew he shouldn't feel so smug, but it appeared that he was the only one who was able to take the wind out of Sherlock's sails; not always, but every now and then.

When he returned he found Sherlock unchanged, staring through the microscope. John sat down next to him and pushed Sherlock's mug over to him. For a moment he got distracted as his eyes fell on Sherlock's fingers which carefully adjusted the lens, but then he caught himself, and he decided to keep his moment of short lived superiority and leaned over to press a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

When Sherlock didn't react, he decided to go for silly. With a grin, he blew air against Sherlock's ear, making him jump. John watched as Sherlock's lip twitched, but he wasn't sure if it was out of annoyance or amusement. When nothing else happened, John decided to force him away from the microscope. He carefully tugged down the collar of Sherlock coat and pushed his hand in his hair. With a small satisfied smile he could feel goose-bumps rise under his fingers. Then, when Sherlock still didn't say anything, he leaned over and blew a raspberry on his neck. Sherlock jumped again, this time pushing himself away from the table on his chair and John was glad that he had reflexively pulled back his head; otherwise they'd both have a headache now.

Sherlock glared at John. He was breathing quickly, as if he had either truly scared him, or as if he was more aroused that he had let on. And while he was staring at John, he himself seemed to not be quite sure what he was feeling.

"Not good?" John asked, trying to keep a triumphant grin off his face, but under Sherlock's eyes it was exceedingly hard. For a few seconds they just stared at each other in silence, and John could sense the tension in Sherlock's body.

He counted to ten and then stepped closer again, reaching out to unbutton Sherlock's coat. Just when his fingers reached his chest, Sherlock's right hand grabbed his wrist while his left hand pushed against John's right shoulder. At the same moment he hooked his foot behind John's right knee and pulled hard. In a second John found himself lying stretched over Sherlock's lap, both of his arms behind his back, held together with one hand while the other lay loosely on John's throat. His legs were also trapped under Sherlock's crossed ankles. John knew he was truly fucked.

"And you're dead," Sherlock announced, sounding very calm for the stunt he had just pulled and gently ran his index finger over John's throat.

John stared up at him, breathing heavily, anticipation sparking under his skin. He knew that if Sherlock had tried with him what he had just done two years ago, when he was constantly prepared for an attack, he would have had Sherlock unconscious before he could have thought of using his leg to rob him of his balance. But he wasn't quite the soldier anymore.

John jerked his head, lightly, and managed to catch Sherlock's thumb between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. A tiny hiss told John that Sherlock was just as turned on by their little situation as he was.

He swirled his tongue around Sherlock's finger, watching as his eyes narrowed in a half smile, but then he remembered that this thumb could have been poking around in blood a few moments ago and he opened his mouth, fighting down his sudden disgust.

Sherlock pulled his hand from John's mouth and almost gently let it rest on John's lower belly. John jerked, lightly but obviously and Sherlock smirked. "Don't worry, I washed my hands before you came back," he said, his voice betraying his amusement even more than his face.

When John pulled at his hands he released them, and John grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat to sit up, dragging him down into a kiss.

After a few moments, John pulled back, watching as Sherlock opened his eyes. John knew it was silly, but he remembered asking Sherlock to close his eyes when he had protested, and now it had become the most natural thing for him. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was actually just giving himself up then, or whether he just let his other senses take over, but he didn't really care. "I didn't quite expect _that_ when you spoke of stimulation," John grinned. Sherlock smirked, but John had enough of his games. He freed himself from Sherlock's grasp and stood up to ruffle Sherlock's hair, drawing an annoyed growl from him, which he knew wasn't real. "Bed," he said, kicking off his shoes. "Now."

Sherlock grinned and stood up, finishing unbuttoning his coat. Then he walked to the bed and hopped on it, causing John to grin despite himself. "You're impossible."

"I'm just testing the surface."

John exhaled and stepped in front of him, getting rid of Sherlock's jacket and shirt while he watched him closely the entire time. He wanted to seem cool, and he wanted Sherlock to think he was in control, but it was hard to not get lost in those eyes. They were icy blue at this moment and John wondered if Sherlock knew that his eyes constantly changed colour.

Shaking off that thought he pushed the garments off Sherlock's shoulders, leaving him to free his hands from the cuffs. He knelt down and laid his hands on both of Sherlock's knees, looking up to make sure he was watching. "Hands behind your back," he said, calm but determined.

Sherlock gave a jerk with his chin to show he had understood. Then John pushed his hands up, digging his fingernails into the rough denim, feeling Sherlock's muscles shift as he tried to keep calm. "God, Sherlock," John said, pushing Sherlock's thighs farther apart.

It must have been uncomfortable for Sherlock, because there was simply nowhere for him to go. John grazed his fingernails over his bulge, watching as a shiver ran through Sherlock's body. With a smirk he leaned forward and pushed his tongue against the heated denim. Knowing that Sherlock was aware that this was his revenge for his mouth on his cock when Sherlock had been sick and that he would probably not try to stop him, he bit him gently, making Sherlock's back arch up. Then he sat back on his heels again and loosened the button, making Sherlock hiss. The zip almost posed a problem, because the jeans were that tight now. Sherlock simply let himself fall back, not caring whether he would hurt his hands, but John had other plans.

"Touch yourself," he said quietly, unsure where the sudden urge to see Sherlock's long fingers work on himself came from.

Sherlock pushed himself back up, looking at John for a few seconds before he lifted his arse to push down his jeans and underwear. John watched him while white heat pooled in his stomach.

When Sherlock wrapped his hand around his cock, he swallowed hard. The thought that those fingers could at this moment be wrapped around him made John sweat. "Go on," he said, but his voice betrayed his cool merciless.

With a smirk, Sherlock began to work on himself and once he got into a rhythm, fast and almost too practiced, John didn't have it in him to stop him. Just when Sherlock came, he dropped back on the bed so that he came over his own stomach and not John. Afterwards, he simply lay there, trying to catch his breath, one hand still on his cock, and one hand covering his face.

John sat down next to him and pulled his hand away, looking down on the flushed face and the slightly parted lips.

 _I love you thank you you're beautiful_ , all of these thoughts rushed through his mind but he couldn't say any of them, instead he leaned down and kissed him, gently, carefully, just feeling those full lips against his. Sherlock let him.

After a few moments, he started to kick at his jeans, letting them fall to the floor while his hand started to wipe at the cum on his stomach. John pulled back and started undressing. When he had gotten rid of his t-shirt, he used it to clean Sherlock up as much as possible. With a smile he leaned down to kiss Sherlock's stomach, and was interrupted by a sharp intake of breath. At first he thought he had tickled Sherlock, but when he looked up, he saw that he was yawning heartily.

"That's impossible," John stated with a grin. "You can't be tired. You slept more than I did and you're tired again?"

Sherlock sniffed and rolled onto his side. "Being constantly aroused wears me out," he stated drily. John laughed and hurried to get out of his trousers.

"Right, so we'll take a nap and then just go out again when it's dark? Find some ghosts?"

"John, what are you ... never mind. Turn off the light?"

John chuckled and gently punched his shoulder. "Lazy bastard," he murmured affectionately as he moved to switch off the light.

Sherlock crawled into the middle of the bed and under the covers, where John joined him. "And you better make sure I come properly before we go out later," he murmured against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Just an hour, John, I'm sure you can wait this long."

John wrapped his arms and legs around Sherlock as tightly as possible, making him feel his erection. But despite being aroused, the feeling of being entirely attached to Sherlock made him feel warm and safe, and soon he drifted off.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

He felt as if he had slept for hours, and when John woke up he found Sherlock staring at him. No, staring wasn't the word. He was looking at him, but it wasn't enquiring, he wasn't analysing him, but he also wasn't somewhere off in his thoughts. He was looking at him as if there was nothing else or better for him to do. John blinked, sleep still heavy in his eyes. "Hey."

Sherlock didn't answer, he just kept looking. "You okay?" John asked, now slightly worried about Sherlock. The tiniest twitch in his lip was his answer. "What are you doing?" John asked, suddenly feeling the need to hear Sherlock's deep voice. He always spoke more slowly after he had slept and sometimes, very rarely, he stumbled over his words, which had never so much amused as irritated John. When he still didn't get an answer, he simply leaned forward and gave Sherlock a gentle kiss. When he drew back, Sherlock had his eyes closed, and his expression was one of deep concentration.

John stretched and yawned and when he looked back at Sherlock, the stare to which he had woken up was back. The expression made him look vulnerable, and John understood that maybe he was exactly that, in this moment. "Say something," John pleaded.

"I'll be in the shower," Sherlock replied with a small smile and before John could hold him back, he was out of the bed and in the bathroom. John closed his eyes again.

Last night had been incredibly intense. The way Sherlock had simply lain there, waiting for him to surprise him. The feeling of power had been incredible, and somehow he was itching to repeat the experiment. And then the teasing all morning and finally his hands on Sherlock's jeans clad erection. The way he had brought himself off while John had watched. Whatever he had thought might happen to them; this was certainly not what he had imagined. He felt incredibly fortunate to be able to see Sherlock like this; to experience him like this.

Sherlock reappeared from the shower, drops of water falling from his hair and his shoulders, slowly making their way down his body until they were caught in the towel which hung loosely on Sherlock's narrow hips. Only the amused look on Sherlock's face made John understand that this time it was he who was doing the staring.

"Go take a shower," Sherlock said with the hint of a smile on his face. He was definitely up to something, John thought. He was too calm, too quiet. He was never like this on a normal day. But instead of trying to figure him out, he rolled off the bed and tiredly scuffled into the bathroom. Sherlock stepped aside as to not touch him, but before John could feel the silly pang of rejection, he caught Sherlock's eyes and knew that he would be rewarded.

John stood under the shower with shampoo in his hair and body wash all over him when Sherlock came in. He stood in front of the mirror and started shaving. John watched him while he went on working his hands through his hair. He kept looking at Sherlock until he had finished shaving. When Sherlock put down the razor, John turned off the water and stepped out of the tub and wrapped his wet self around his lover from behind. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder and let his hands wander over his chest. Sherlock leaned into him, exhaling shakily as if he had been holding his breath. "Are you alright?" John asked again, knowing that Sherlock was probably annoyed by the repetitive question.

"Yes, John, I'm alright," he said quietly, and then he turned around and returned the hug, gently kissing the side of John's head. "I…I want you to make love to me tonight." He spoke quietly, and he sounded incredibly shy.

John wasn't sure whether he was really surprised by the request. They had talked about it before, even if they only joked about it in bed. But their conversation about condoms and lube had pretty much cleared the way for any advances of the kind.

The difference was that this time it wasn't something said in the heat of the moment; he didn't want to prove him right or say something to drive him crazy. This time, he really asked. John nodded silently against his shoulder.

"It'll probably be awful," he grinned, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. Sherlock chuckled and held him tighter for a second.

"Let's have dinner first? I think I need something in my stomach before I can properly think about this," John smiled. Sherlock let go of him and walked into the bedroom, pulling his towel from his hips to dry his hair. In the soft light of the lamps his body seemed almost golden. John found it hard to believe that he was allowed to touch that gorgeous body; no, that he was asked to, even.

"Do you like the view?" Sherlock asked with a smirk, turning around to face John who stood in the door and simply looked. Under Sherlock's eyes, he could feel his ears burn yet again. John chewed on his lip to distract himself.

Sherlock's smirk momentarily turned into a wide smile – a smile which told John that he was being categorised as adorable right now – and he walked towards John, stopping only an inch away from him. After a few moments of just looking at John, Sherlock lowered his chin and gently kissed him. John moaned into the kiss, a sound which surprised them both, and which caused Sherlock to deepen the kiss. John's hands came to rest on both sides of Sherlock's head, keeping him in place as the kiss turned very messy very quickly. Eventually Sherlock pulled back lightly, taking John's hands in his and guiding them down until they cupped his arse. "Better?"

"Fuck, yes," John grinned and squeezed, successfully wiping the smirk off Sherlock's face. "God, I love that I can do that to you," John whispered and squeezed again, harder, to make sure that Sherlock wouldn't come up with a smart reply. When he still opened his mouth to speak, John swallowed his words in a searing kiss. When he squeezed again and pressed himself harder against Sherlock, a whimper escaped Sherlock and John could feel how hard he was against his stomach.

He loved it; he loved corrupting Sherlock like this.

Just as Sherlock tried to take charge, one hand pressing against the small of John's back, the other coming up to his head to keep him in place, John moved down, kissing along his jaw and then down his throat until he reached the shadow of the love bite he had left there not so many days ago. When he attached his lips and tongue to the spot and sucked, he could feel Sherlock's knees buckle. The hands which had merely pressed against John were now trying to find purchase. John could feel Sherlock's fingernails scratch his back and a groan escaped him, which, in turn, drew another whimper from Sherlock.

When John was satisfied that the mark had been restored to its former visibility, he moved down further, kissing along Sherlock's chest and stomach before he knelt in front of Sherlock's feet. John remembered Sherlock's reaction to his first blowjob and he felt excited to be able to make him feel like this again. Both hands on Sherlock's hips, he pressed his face against Sherlock's thigh, watching Sherlock's cock beg for attention. Then, very gently, he pressed a kiss to the head, watching as Sherlock's cock twitched in anticipation and a gasp from above told him that this would be very enjoyable for both of them. When Sherlock's hand gently tugged at his hair only to press him closer a second later, John let him slide into his mouth as far as he could without gagging. For a second John remembered how vigorous Sherlock had been when he had been sick and the memory sent hot sparks of white heat right into his own cock. He groaned against Sherlock, whose hand tightened in his hair.

John pressed his tongue up and slowly let him slide out of his mouth, carefully sucking on his head, licking away the salty drops of pre-come. Repeating the action, he could feel Sherlock staggering towards orgasm much faster than he had anticipated, and for a moment he considered just making him come. John was fighting with himself, because the urge to hear the grunts which Sherlock made when he was close were a very tempting promise, but on the other hand he now had the chance to draw this out a bit and drive him properly crazy. John realised that he enjoyed being in control more than was probably good for him, but if Sherlock succeeded in all other respects of their lives, being in charge in the bedroom wasn't really such a bad thing.

Sherlock's breathing was ragged and John moved a little faster, using his left hand to gently massage his testicles while his right was working on himself now. When he changed his pace again, Sherlock cried out, his legs shaking now.

"John. John!"

He knew there was no turning back if he didn't stop now, so he pulled away, watching in fascination how deeply flushed Sherlock's cock was in contrast to his white skin. "No, no, John! Please, don't!" Sherlock was undone and John felt a wave of affection rock through him. "Yes," he murmured, licking away the bead of pre-come again.

Sherlock wanted to touch himself but John batted his hand away. "Mine," he growled, making Sherlock look at him in surprise. After a moment the expression on Sherlock's face shifted from surprised to challenging. John knew that Sherlock would only let him be on control for as long as he saw fit and he would probably be put in a very similar situation very soon, but for now he didn't care. Grinning up at Sherlock, he leaned forward and let him slip back into his mouth, keeping the pressure to a minimum. He didn't have to wait long until Sherlock's legs started shaking again, both hands in John's hair now, wanting to pull but not quite daring.

Sherlock was relatively quiet, and John guessed that it was his way of paying him back. When he cupped his testicles, Sherlock couldn't suppress a groan, and when he very carefully dragged his teeth along his length a wail escaped him which made John's heart take up speed. "John, please!"

For a few more moments, John just let him suffer. He had long since given up stroking himself, needing both hands now to hold Sherlock's hips in place. Every now and then he stopped, watching as Sherlock trembled, his breath coming out in ragged short gasps.

John felt proud of himself, moving his hands from Sherlock's hips around and down to squeeze his arse. Sherlock came with a surprised shout, doubling over, his hands balling to fists in John's hair and John was sure he would have a few bald patches now. Gasping for breath, he shot hot and fast into his mouth and John had to close his eyes and just concentrated on not choking for a few moments.

He held on to Sherlock's hips tightly as he came down from his high. Eventually Sherlock's hands relaxed and released his hair, a shuddering sigh causing John's heart to flutter. He gently kissed Sherlock's thigh and then got up again, coming to stand in front of him. "You okay?" he asked, pushing the hair out of Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock silently nodded, his eyes shining as if he was about to cry. "Are you sure?" John asked again, and the blinding smile that followed calmed him down again. "Right, screw dinner," he said quietly, kissing Sherlock's lips quickly. "If you're up for it, we can try ..." he didn't quite know how to say it.

Sherlock simply nodded. They stared at each other for a few seconds before John stepped back to get the bag out of the bathroom and Sherlock climbed onto the bed. "How do you want me?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly unsure of what to do.

John came back and climbed onto the bed next to Sherlock. "We should close the curtains," he grinned and handed Sherlock the bag. "I don't even want to know what the neighbours have already witnessed."

Sherlock grinned and leaned over to kiss John. "Well, they certainly know now that you are very good with your mouth," he chuckled.

"Thank you," John grinned and kissed him in turn. He rolled off the bed and pulled the curtains closed. Then he turned around and looked at Sherlock. "Are you sure?" he asked, feeling his hands shaking lightly.

Sherlock nodded silently and pulled the lube out of the bag.

"Right," John said, clearing his throat nervously. "But you tell me when it hurts or when it feels uncomfortable or when ..."

"John," Sherlock simply said, shaking his head lightly, "come here."

And John came to kneel in front of Sherlock who pulled him into a hug. "Just ... pretend I'm your patient."

John chuckled. "Yeah, that's not going to make it awkward at all."

A soft kiss on his cheek made him smile and relax a bit. Sherlock's voice calmed him down and excited him equally when he spoke. "I know you've repeatedly thought of making love to me, and I really want to know what this is all about. It's a blank in my catalogue, so if you feel insecure about it, know that whatever happens and whatever it feels like, it might be relevant to my work."

John laughed against his face. "So it's a threesome?"

Sherlock snorted and then quickly kissed him. "Come on then." He flipped onto his stomach and wiggled his arse. There was no way that John would be able to resist him now.

He knelt behind him, pushing at his calves until Sherlock spread his legs. When John moved closer and hooked his hands under his hips, he lifted his arse until he was at a perfect height in front of John. He ran one hand over Sherlock's back, feeling him tense and push against him. When he pulled his hand back to his arse, Sherlock sucked in his breath and John had to fight not to touch himself. He gently ran a finger from Sherlock's tail bone down, watching a shudder run through his body when he reached his anus, pushing down lightly. The resistance was strong, and for a moment John doubted that there was any way in which his cock could fit in there without hurting Sherlock. But he would try and see how far he could go without hurting him.

As he flipped open the tube, Sherlock's shoulders tensed. His forehead rested on his forearms which were crossed in front of him and John felt the intense urge to have a sculptor capture this moment in marble. "You're so fucking perfect," John whispered while he warmed up the lube, getting to know the texture of the gel. "Skinny as hell, but perfect." Sherlock made a noise which might have sounded a bit like "piss off," but John wasn't sure. With a grin he moved forward and closer to Sherlock. "Don't jump now, and do tell me when to stop."

Knowing that it would be easier for Sherlock to relax, he placed one hand on the small of his back and started to gently rub little circles around his anus, feeling the muscle tighten at the contact. He took his time, pushing harder every now and then, listening to Sherlock's breathing. "I'll try to push in now, okay?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly.

"Breathe, okay? Just breathe." John said it to himself as much as to Sherlock. He pushed his index finger against the tense muscle. "Let me in," he smiled, pushing a bit harder. Eventually, his finger slipped in up to the second knuckle. "Are you okay?" he asked, watching goose bumps rise on Sherlock's legs. He rotated his finger, trying to slick him up. He added a little more lube, making Sherlock squirm because of the cold, and pushed in until his entire finger was buried as far as he could go.

"Alright?" he asked, watching Sherlock breathe. "Sherlock? Talk to me."

A somewhat annoyed sigh came from the man in front of him and John had to chuckle. "Talk to me or I'll stop," he warned.

"Fine, John. It's fine. It feels strange, like it's not supposed to be there, but I guess that was also what it felt like when you had me in your mouth for the first time."John laughed and leaned down to press a quick kiss to his arse.

Now it was time to do what he was there for. He pulled his finger back just a bit until he felt the small rise of the prostrate and pressed down very gently. The reaction he got was quite unexpected. Sherlock jerked and he tightened around John's finger involuntarily. "John, John ... oh John," Sherlock groaned, his hands balled into fists. "John, do that again!"

John smiled and repeated the kiss on his arse. "You have to relax, Sherlock. I can't move."

"Sorry, of course." Sherlock inhaled deeply and then exhaled very slowly. With his breath went his resistance.

When John pushed down again carefully, he got the same reaction as he had the first time. Sherlock almost broke his finger and he groaned into the bed. "No," John said, shaking his head, "this won't do. Turn around, I need to see your face."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, but when John pulled out his finger, he pushed himself up and then rolled onto his back. "This is definitely not what the examination felt like," Sherlock said, his voice slightly shaky.

"'S good then?" John asked as he nudged his legs apart, ignoring the returned erection.

Sherlock's lips twitched. With a grin, John leaned over Sherlock and kissed him on the lips. When he moved down again he took a pillow with him. "Lift," he simply said and when Sherlock raised his hips, he pushed it under his arse to have better access.

Then he slicked up his finger again, and, holding on to Sherlock's hip with his right hand, pushed back in. This time it was slightly easier, and he moved his finger in and out for a moment, watching as Sherlock's eyes screwed shut and his hands took hold of the sheets. John's thumb gently caressed his testicles from below while his finger worked in and out. When he was sure that Sherlock was relaxed enough, he added a second finger, again using more lube to make sure that he wouldn't hurt Sherlock.

He carefully pushed against him, feeling him tighten around his fingers before making way for him again. "Still okay?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. They looked black. His pupils were dilated and only a small ring of piercing blue was left. "Yes," he whispered, "more than okay."

John smiled and bit his lower lip as he pushed both fingers in all the way. Sherlock exhaled and smiled back. "Do it again," he asked, a light blush gracing his cheeks.

So he pulled back, slightly, and then pushed upwards. Sherlock's entire body lifted off the bed, his heels digging into the mattress, his hands scrambling for purchase.

"Oh God, John!" Sherlock groaned loudly, "John!"

He pulled out again, ignoring the annoyed noise Sherlock made.

When his breathing had calmed, he pushed himself up on his elbows, his eyes blazing. "Can I ... I need to ... John, I need you to feel this." He sounded like a teenager who had just discovered the pleasures of masturbation and John chuckled, stroking his thigh.

"No," John said, kissing Sherlock's knee, "now it's my turn to figure out what makes you feel good. You can experiment later."

"But it's ..."

"Shut up and let me work here," John laughed, "I'm not done with you."

"It's not awful," Sherlock answered, almost as an afterthought, and John felt entirely in love with Sherlock then.

"I'm glad," he smiled, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's knee.

He started to gently stretch him. A few times Sherlock grunted in discomfort, but John knew now how to divert his attention. "Okay, I'll try three fingers now, alright?"

Sherlock just nodded. His head moved from left to right and back, his hair a complete mess. John had to remind himself that he had several fingers up Sherlock's arse in order to calm himself down from the elating feeling which threatened to overpower him.

He was incredibly relieved to feel Sherlock's resistance lessen when he managed to push three fingers in all the way. For the first time he believed that he would be able to actually enter him without causing him pain. Eventually Sherlock started to move against his fingers, trying to bring them back in contact with his prostate. John chuckled and gently stroked the small gland, causing Sherlock to let out a string on incoherent sounds, some of which sounded like John's name, and others like some foreign language, which amused John greatly.

"Sherlock?" John smiled as he pulled out his fingers, wiping them on the sheet. "Do you think you're ready?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply and he pushed himself back on his elbows. "I'm ready."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

John's hands were shaking when he opened the box of condoms and it took him a while until he had managed to tear open a satchel and pull out the condom.

Sherlock sat up, watching with interest as John carefully pulled it over himself, inhaling sharply when John couldn't resist squeezing himself. "I want to watch," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat nervous.

"It might be easier from behind," John suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't care. I want to see it. You. I want to see you."

And John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close, just breathing for a moment.

"Alright."

Sherlock started to pile up the pillows and blankets and then propped himself up against that pile, spreading his legs. "Ready when you are," he said with a challenging grin.

John crawled on top of him, kissing his lips quickly. "I love you, Sherlock. And I apologise, just in case I lose it before I make you come again."

Sherlock laughed and wrapped his arms around John. "I really don't mind," he said, pressing his cheek against John's, inhaling deeply. "But I love you." He spoke quietly, just loud enough for John to hear it clearly. There was nothing left of his nonchalant, obvious declaration of his feelings for John. It seemed that he had slowly learned that these words meant more than just a statement of a fact. 

John shuddered and stayed in his arms for a while longer, but eventually he moved back a bit, looking down between their legs. "Maybe you could put your legs over my shoulders," he suggested, blushing, because he felt as if he was saying something incredibly indecent. He was back in the pharmacy, feeling as if he was doing something that his parents would definitely disapprove of. Thankfully, Sherlock nodded, seemingly entirely on board with John's concerns. "Okay, we can try that."

So John picked up the lube again and slicked himself up, squirming as he covered himself, and then used the remaining gel on his fingers to add to the slickness around Sherlock's anus. He leaned forward and carefully positioned himself in a way in which he thought he would be able to enter Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his legs. He hooked one over John's shoulder, and wrapped the other around his waist. John chuckled, nervously. "God, I feel like a bloody virgin."

Sherlock grinned and gently touched his cheek. "You're doing fine. Now please come on and do it before I lose my mind."

John chuckled and kissed the hand that was cupping his cheek. "Would be worth a try just to see what you are like without your mind."

When Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, he pushed forward, feeling the same resistance which had kept his fingers from entering Sherlock in the beginning. "Oh God, Sherlock, relax. Please."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, his thumb coming to rest on John's lower lip. He could feel John's clenched jaw as he tried to keep himself from crying out when he pushed in slowly, breaching Sherlock's muscle. Sherlock sucked in his breath only to let it out again in a pained moan, and John opened his mouth and caught Sherlock's thumb between his teeth. Neither of them had words for what they felt.

For a few moments they remained like this, unmoving, John trying to get used to the tightness around him and Sherlock trying to relax to let John in further. When Sherlock nodded, John pushed again, feeling himself slide in deeper. He was endlessly relieved to feel that he was now sliding in with relative ease, and that there was no more pain in Sherlock's face. When Sherlock jerked and his left hand came to rest on John's arm where he dug his fingernails into John's skin, he knew that he had hit his prostate.

"Beginner's luck," John chuckled around Sherlock's thumb. In this moment, Sherlock pushed against him and John suddenly found himself buried all the way inside Sherlock. "Jesus Christ!" he gasped, pressing his face against Sherlock's chest. And Sherlock moved his hand and pulled his leg from John's shoulder in order to wrap both legs around his hips and he hugged him tightly.

John needed a while to sort out his thoughts and emotions but eventually he felt safe to speak again. "Does that feel alright?" he asked, pulling back to be able to look at Sherlock, who stared at him with wide eyes.

"It's different from what I expected, and it feels strange, but it's very," he stopped as John carefully rocked against him, causing his eyes to flutter closed for a second before he caught himself again, "good," he finished. "I think I understand now why people do this."

John grinned and kissed him sloppily. "I'm going to move now. I have no idea how long I can hold on, but ... God, you feel perfect."

"Is it different?" Sherlock asked, and John wanted to yell at him for being utterly unromantic, but this was Sherlock Holmes he was fucking, so of course he would try to contextualise it.

"Quite," he grunted as he pulled back slowly. Apparently Sherlock was now preoccupied with the sensation of it all so that his request for more data remained unspoken. John moved slowly, trying to find an angle which felt right. His arms were shaking, but he refused to put his weight on Sherlock. Their foreheads touched as they both looked down, breathing raggedly. Eventually John found a rhythm, and he moved faster, feeling Sherlock shudder underneath him. With a grunt he captured his mouth in a searing kiss.

When Sherlock used his legs to pull himself up against John, breaking his rhythm, they both groaned loudly and the kiss turned sloppy, and eventually they had to stop altogether, simply breathing against each other's faces, trying to hold on to the little control they still had.

Eventually Sherlock couldn't keep his legs wrapped around John and he let them fall down, his heels digging into the bed, pushing his hips up to meet John's. John, however, couldn't go as deep as he had before and grunted in frustration, pushing harder. Slowly but surely, they started to fight each other for control. John pushed himself up with one arm while he tugged at Sherlock's leg to raise it up again.

Instead of pulling it over his shoulder, John lost his grip and Sherlock pushed his arm out of the way and ended up with his foot against John's chest while his knee was pressed into the pillow next to his head. John giggled and tugged at the other foot, but apparently Sherlock was content to remain in what had to be an uncomfortable position. In any case, Sherlock's foot against his chest meant that he didn't have to hold himself up on his arms, and so he leaned into Sherlock, feeling his toes curl against his skin and he clasped his hands, intertwining their fingers.

Sherlock's other foot started to stroke his upper thigh and John wondered how much time Sherlock had spent thinking of ways to surprise him.

"If I didn't know it better," he murmured, pushing into him and trying to reach his face to kiss him, which Sherlock's foot on his chest prevented, "I'd think that you've done this before."

"I'm a quick learner," Sherlock grinned, finally raising his head to let John kiss him.

"And you are incredibly imaginative, no matter what you say."

"Must be your doing as well. I've never been creative. I always stick to the facts, remember? Strive for the best possible outcome. Seems like sex works differently." John laughed against his lips, using Sherlock's hands to pull himself closer, just to push himself away again.

"God, Sherlock, I want to make you come."

"I know how."

"Do you now?" John stared at Sherlock's flushed face. There was a fine film of sweat on his forehead and it seemed as if he couldn’t stop smiling. "Show me," he whispered, playfully biting at his chin.

Sherlock grinned and lifted his head again so that John could actually reach him. "You know that you just showed me about twenty seven different ways in which I could drive you absolutely insane?" he smiled, letting go of John's hands and grabbing his arse instead.

"Oh fuck," John gasped, closing his eyes.

"And if you let me I'm going to make good use of that information."

"By god I hope you mean that you are going to experiment on me and that you don't mean your files," John grunted, moving faster, now that he could use his hands again.

Sherlock remained speechless for a while, only moaning, his fingers digging into John's arse. John felt a bit proud of himself. "Now show me how," he then said, pushing one hand into Sherlock's hair to pull him back up into a kiss.

He felt Sherlock shift underneath him, and suddenly he found himself on his back, with Sherlock on top of him, straddling his hips, his cock still firmly inside of Sherlock.

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock laughed. He laughed a happy, proud little laugh and John grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down into a tight hug. "I'm actually making love to you," he whispered into Sherlock's hair. "Tell me how long you've been waiting for this."

Sherlock exhaled shakily. "Consciously? Since the moment you were mad at me for not caring. I didn't picture this, but I really wanted to ... be with you. Physically."

"Oh my god, Sherlock! That's a long time."

"It was before I knew what it was that I felt for you, but I know that this was the first time that I really wanted to touch you. The way you sat down, defeated, and started to read through the papers to help me anyway. I just wanted to thank you. But obviously this wasn't really an option."

For a while they were just breathing against each other, but then Sherlock pushed himself up again. He smiled down on John as he started to move his hips. At first it seemed random, but soon John realised that Sherlock was trying to find an angle which would stimulate his prostate. To watch Sherlock use him in that way for his own pleasure made heat pool in his stomach. "Fuck, Sherlock. You better find it soon or I'll come before you."

With a lazy grin, Sherlock lifted himself off John and then pushed down again. The shudder which ran through his body told John that he had found the right angle. He let Sherlock work for a few moments, just enjoying the view of Sherlock's stomach and chest, sharp bones and sensual lines making up the most gorgeous body he had ever seen, a very hard and flushed cock between their bodies, and a blissful smile which was directed at him. Only at him. John gasped and it sounded an awful lot like a sob.

Sherlock's breathing quickened, and the muscles in his stomach contracted more frequently as he moved faster. So John let one hand wander over Sherlock's stomach and up to his chest, where he felt a rapid heartbeat pulse against his palm. The other hand he wrapped around Sherlock's cock, and with a sob Sherlock started to move even faster. John watched as he lost control and when Sherlock started shouting John's name the tightness which surrounded him was suddenly too much. He closed his eyes and came, feeling Sherlock contract around him, his come splashing across his fingers and his stomach.

It was too much; too much to take in, too much to survive unscathed, too much to not lose his mind a little.

Sherlock collapsed on top of him, his face buried in John's neck, his heartbeat racing and his entire body shaking. It seemed a lifetime until John was able to open his eyes again and to wipe his hand on the sheet and wrap his arms around his lover.

It took him much longer to realise that he was having trouble seeing properly because he was crying. For a moment he felt silly and wiped at his face, but when he felt that Sherlock didn't stop shaking, he knew that no rules applied.

"Sherlock," he murmured, his voice rough, "are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded weakly against his shoulder, so John rolled them over so that they came to lie side by side, and he carefully and slowly pulled out. Sherlock was still clinging to him, still pressing his face against John's skin.

After a few moments he felt that he was entirely soft again and gently kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "I have to get rid of the condom," he murmured, detaching himself from him.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and his face wet from tears, but there was also a smile when he looked at John. "Can I keep it?"

"What?" John chuckled.

"Your semen. I could freeze it and experiment and ..."

"Right, clone me, why don't you?"

Sherlock pouted and then sniffed, as if to make sure that John knew that he was not pleased with his reluctance to offer Sherlock a new toy to play with.

"I love you, you silly man," John smiled and kissed the pout away. Just to make sure, he went into the bathroom and actually flushed the condom down the toilet against his better knowledge. Then he soaked a small towel and cleaned himself up. Sherlock lay sprawled on the bed when he came back. He looked thoroughly fucked. John thought back to all these months and months in which he had known Sherlock, and not once had he imagined to ever see him like he looked now.

He climbed back on the bed and started to wipe Sherlock's stomach clean. When he carefully lifted his cock from his stomach to wipe it, Sherlock shuddered and John couldn't suppress a small moan.

"John?" Sherlock spoke quietly.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

He just looked at him, wide eyed, unable to formulate what he wanted to say.

John gently lifted Sherlock's left leg and wiped away the lube which was still everywhere. Sherlock jerked lightly when he touched his anus, and John felt a little bit in awe of what he had just done; what he had been allowed to do.

"I'll be right back," John said, pressing a small kiss to Sherlock's stomach and then he put away the towel and instead brought back two glasses of water of which he handed one to Sherlock and then downed his own.

"No dinner?" Sherlock asked, quietly.

"No dinner, if you're not hungry, that is," John affirmed and came to lie next to him. "Talk to me," he whispered then, fishing for the blankets and pillows and covering them both. Sherlock moved closer to him until he could rest his face on John's chest.

"You are so appreciative of me," Sherlock started, and John had to suppress a giggle at his words. "Vocally, I mean. I just ... I just want you to know that I think you are absolutely beautiful, even if you don't think so. But you are. You are perfect. To me, you are perfect."

John gently played with his hair. He knew that whatever he would say would just affirm what Sherlock was worried about right now, so he kept quiet.

"And now you made love to me. You really loved me. I was always aware that I was not someone to be loved. Sure, my mother and father loved me, initially at least, and ... my brother, well, I suppose he also does, but it's different. They weren't given a choice. You ... chose me." He gently kissed John's chest. "And you dragged me out of that place in which I spent my life, thinking I didn't need love. I was fine before, really. But now ..." he stopped and pushed himself up to face John. "I realised that what you gave me, Moriarty can't take away anymore. He can try to take you away and he can try to destroy me, but he can't take away what I feel now. What you made me feel. That you made me feel." He was silent for a moment, simply looking at John, who understood now where the tears had come from. "My work is important, yes, it is still important, but so are you, and for the first time I have hopes for the future." He frowned and he looked almost in pain. "I always thought that one day I would just die because of a failed experiment or during a case, or because of Moriarty, and, frankly, I didn't care. But now," he smiled and gently touched John's face, "now I want to grow old and silly and weak with you."

John bit his lip and then pulled him tightly against his body. "Sounds like a good plan," he smiled.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

They left the light on, too lazy to get up and too much in need of body contact to break it. John held on to Sherlock and relaxed, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he had just made love to him; to a man who called a skull his friend and his brother his arch enemy. A man who would not take no for an answer and who hated irrational behaviour, but who went out of his way to piss off half of New Scotland Yard just because he could. A man who had managed to shut himself off almost completely when it came to criticism regarding his own person, but had spent a lot of time criticising others. A man who had been in love with him for half a year and not said a single word about it, knowing, no, hoping that John would finally realise that he loved him back.

He pushed his hand into Sherlock's hair and kissed his lips. "Sherlock, what if I had never ..."

Sherlock opened his eyes and kissed him back, silencing the question. Somewhere inside John something snapped and he deepened the kiss, closing his eyes, forcing the tears away. But he couldn't leave the question unanswered. After he trusted himself again, he carefully pulled back and inhaled deeply. "You would have just gone on like before. You wouldn't have said a word ..." The tears were back and he couldn't keep them from spilling this time. "You would have watched me live my life, marry Sarah, move out and think ..." He had to stop, swallowing a sob, "think that you weren't good enough to be loved. Oh god, Sherlock." He pressed his face against his chest, wrapping his arms around him again, holding on tighter than before.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock said, but his voice didn't sound right. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I would have still ruined your dates, and you would have been properly mad at me and then you," he stopped, apparently not quite as detached from what he was thinking as he was trying to make John believe, "would have left, yelling at me and I would have been mad at you for being pedestrian and then I could have gone back to ..." He stopped. There was no going back. Not now, and not in his imagination. With a sigh he turned on his back and pulled John on top of him, wrapping his legs and arms around him.

"But that's not what happened," he said, quietly, slightly in awe.

John nodded against his chest. "Thank god."

"I'm not that skinny," Sherlock then stated, making John laugh and look up at him, wiping his face.

"Yes you are," he pulled one arm from around Sherlock and prodded his rib. "See that?"

Sherlock grinned. "I'm sure I've gained a pound over the last three days."

"Swallowing doesn't count," John retorted, making Sherlock snort.

"I did eat proper food, in case you didn't notice."

"Oh, I noticed. I also noticed that you suffered from a fairly terrible bout fever and before that when I was ... gone ... you probably didn't eat anything, and before that you were too much in love to feel hungry, if I remember correctly. Before the library, you were a bit less skinny."

"It's not like you felt me up before, so you can't really say that you have enough data to justify such an assumption."

John grinned and poked him in the side, making Sherlock squirm and loosen the grip of his arms around him. "It doesn't mean that I can't tell from looking at you. I might not notice a lot of things, but your diet isn't exactly something easy to miss when you live together.

"So," Sherlock grinned at a sudden memory, "now that you are my," he paused, biting his lower lip, "boyfriend, are you going to feed me up?"

John laughed and nuzzled his neck. "I'll find ways of making you eat, now that I have a few more options."

"Is that so?"

John chuckled and bit his earlobe. "Well, I could either reward you or withhold affection."

Sherlock grunted and pushed at John and suddenly it was John who was lying beneath Sherlock. "Is that so?" he asked again, a wolfish grin on his lips.

"I could also order you," John said, smiling innocently at Sherlock.

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing. And then, within a second, his eyes widened again and he looked down on him almost shyly. "Can I touch you?"

John hated that this request alone sent blood into his cock. A few seconds and Sherlock wouldn't have to ask again because he would feel the answer poking him in his thigh.

"I want you to feel what I felt."

So much for being in control. John tried to keep the smile off his face but failed miserably. He sighed, pretending to be annoyed. "Fine.”

Sherlock grinned and kissed him gently on the lips. "Only if you want me to."

"Sherlock, can't you deduce that?"

"John," Sherlock answered, his voice sounding altogether too schoolmaster-like to belong into bed. "I am giving you the chance to voice your doubts here. It is obvious that your body does not disagree, but I want you to tell me that you want me to touch you if you want me to touch you. And I will only touch you when you tell..."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, alright. Fucking hell. Yes, bloody well stick your fingers up my arse." He sniffed indignantly and pursed his lips. Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds and then he collapsed on John in a fit of laughter. It took him a while to recompose himself and by the time he pushed himself up to look at John, John was grinning, too. "I hate you," John murmured, trying to pull a straight face. And Sherlock kissed him passionately, and when he came back up for air he closed his eyes and touched his forehead to John's and smiled, "I hate you, too."

They spent a good while longer just cuddling, and John was fairly sure that Sherlock would do something drastic soon as to return to his established public image as a non-cuddling arrogant genius; but instead, he just kissed him again and then rolled over to pick up the lube which was still sitting on the edge of the bed. For a moment he just looked at John, and then crawled on top of him again. They were both hard again, and John wondered whether Sherlock would mind coming a fourth time within a few hours, marvelling at the fact that he was even physically able to in such a short span of time.

But then he stopped thinking, because Sherlock started kissing his way south, taking his time to tease him until he gasped, to bite him until he grunted and to push his tongue into his belly button until he was unable to keep his hips still. Eventually, he came to kneel between John's spread legs and, taking hold of his hips, pulled him towards him and up onto his knees a bit, so that he didn't even have to lean down to reach John's arse. John smiled and pulled his legs towards his chest, watching as Sherlock opened the tube and carefully pressed out some lube onto his fingers. For a moment, Sherlock's face was a mask of pure concentration, but when John stretched out his arm to touch his face, he smiled again. "Okay?" he asked, lowering his hand.

John nodded and then closed his eyes. He couldn't watch Sherlock watching him. He needed to just make his body accept that he would be touched in a place which he had, until now, considered to be his very own business, thank you very much.

Sherlock, being the cheeky bastard that he had turned out to be occasionally, started to stroke his cock instead of concentrating on his anus. John whined and thrust up into his hand in surprise. Just before John was about to say something, Sherlock moved down. His hand was slick and felt incredible when he gently massaged his testicles. When he pressed his thumb against his perineum, John jerked and lost the grip on his legs. For a few moments he just breathed, trying to recover from the pleasure this simple action had caused him. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have Sherlock's long fingers enter him.

"Okay, I'm fine," he eventually confirmed, pulling his legs back towards him again. Sherlock exhaled shakily and John opened his eyes, needing to see whether he was alright. He looked fascinated; utterly fascinated by the reactions he was causing. So John was an experiment yet again, and, strangely enough, it didn’t make him feel strange or uncomfortable at all.

Sherlock grabbed the lube again and applied more to his fingers, before he rubbed it between both hands. John pressed his eyes shut again, not ready to watch him prepare like he would before a surgery. Then he felt Sherlock's warm hands on his buttocks, both thumbs close to his anus, and he started to very gently massage him. For a few seconds he was simply in awe of what that made him feel like, and then he took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I can't believe you've never had sex before! Just how much time did you spend fantasising about this? And don't tell me you read somewhere that this is how you do things, because ... good god it feels good."

"John, shut up, okay?"

John blinked and lifted his head a bit, looking at Sherlock, who looked back at him with a strange expression. "But..."

"Shut up!" he said it quietly, but John closed his mouth and let his head drop back on the bed. Alright, so Sherlock had done research on anal sex. He had filled his genius brain with information on it just so that he would be able to make John feel good. He didn't know why so many curse words came to his mind in this moment, but they were there, on the tip of his tongue, and he swallowed them down, not wanting to offend Sherlock. Instead he let go of his right leg and gently placed his foot over Sherlock's heart. What he felt made him smile widely. Sherlock's heart was thundering away. He might have seemed calm, and his hands were perfectly still, but his heart was hammering in his chest as if this was the most exciting thing he had done in his life. It possibly was.

Sherlock started to move his thumbs in semi circles, pressing against his sphincter muscle and John could almost hear him record the reactions to his actions. When he slipped his thumb inside, he didn't meet much resistance, and John cursed himself for not thinking things through better before he had done this to Sherlock. But it had worked, even if it had taken him a while longer and ... 

All thought left him when suddenly Sherlock's thumb brushed against his prostate. He was so surprised by the jolt that went straight into his cock and up his spine that he kicked Sherlock in the chest, which made him fall backwards onto the bed, leaving him cold and empty.

"John, are you quite alright?" Sherlock sounded both astonished and amused.

"Fuck, Sherlock, I'm so sorry!" John was mortified. He had kicked hard against Sherlock's heart. Not a smooth move, Doctor, he chided himself.

Sherlock pushed himself up on his arms again, laughter bubbling up inside of him. "I take it you need to be restrained for such an ordeal then?" he asked, absent-mindedly running his hand over what would undoubtedly turn into a bruise.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Of course you didn't mean to," Sherlock said with a grin and rolled him onto his stomach. John hissed when his cock was suddenly pressed against the bed. For a moment Sherlock waited, his hand resting on John's arse while the other was now massaging his own chest, and then he straddled him, kneeling over the small of his back facing his feet, pressing him against the mattress.

"Alright?"

"Please tell me if your heart hurts," John begged, his face buried in the crook his arm.

"Not physically, no," Sherlock answered, and before John could formulate a question to that answer, he squeezed John's buttocks and John found that Sherlock was able to very quickly render him completely speechless. This time, he used his right index finger to push into John, and again, as if he had secretly practiced, he found his prostate, but this time he gently pressed down next to it and then very carefully teased it with the tip of his finger.

John buried his face in the bed. There was no way that he would make it through this without screaming. Brilliant. He would never live this down.

Sherlock's breath hitched when he pushed his finger in all the way, bending it slightly so that he would still press against his prostate, slightly overstimulating him. John's entire body went rigid, but not out of pain or discomfort. He simply found it impossible to move. When Sherlock stopped moving in turn, he realised that he should probably tell him that he was alright, but when he lifted his face to let him know, Sherlock pressed the other index finger into him and whatever he had meant to say remained unspoken. Instead he grunted and pulled a pillow close so that he could bury his face in it. Sherlock stretched him carefully, and while it was in fact uncomfortable, the thought that those long slender fingers were inside of him right now made John shudder.

"John?" Sherlock sounded nervous.

"I'm okay," he grunted as Sherlock pulled his fingers out again.

"Would you be entirely disinclined to ..."

John pushed himself up on his elbows. He wasn't sure that he was ready, but if Sherlock kept talking like this there would be no question that John would do anything Sherlock asked of him. "If you look at me while you fuck me," he said, wondering again about that little mental reflex of his.

Sherlock chuckled and started to rub small circles against his sphincter again. John involuntarily pushed his arse up and towards Sherlock's fingers, suddenly missing the strange stretch and pressure.

"So needy," Sherlock commented, shaking his head.

John groaned in frustration. "Please?" he then managed before pushing his face back into the pillow.

But instead of entering him again, Sherlock's hands started to massage in wider circles and eventually he was squeezing and massaging his buttocks, only returning to his anus to tease. This time, John pressed down, trying to get more pressure on his cock. He knew he was shameless, but things couldn't really get any more intimate than they were now.

Finally, _finally_ , Sherlock decided that it was time to repeat his experiment and, after slicking his fingers up with more lube, he pushed two fingers into him. Surprisingly, the sting was gone, and the stretching didn't feel so awkward anymore. Instead, John almost broke his back when he arched up as Sherlock pointedly rubbed against his prostate, now with two fingers. He was begging, and he didn't even know for what, calling Sherlock's name again and again. He felt ridiculous, and feared that the entire hotel would now know the names of the two men who occupied the non-honeymoon suite.

"Fuck! Sherlock! Sherlock, please! God please, please!"

"One more," Sherlock said calmly, his left hand pushing his buttocks apart so that he had easy access. Then he pulled out and returned with the three fingers, pushing carefully and slowly, making John wonder if the intensity of this feeling was something he would one day get used to. Probably not.

"Oh god, Sherlock!"

As far as John could tell, Sherlock was completely unimpressed by his begging, and he loved it. While he enjoyed being in charge, he couldn't deny that he was incredibly fascinated that Sherlock's curiosity overrode his shyness and that he seemed to instinctively know exactly what to do.

"Please, now. I don't think I can get more ready than this!" John grunted out between clenched teeth. And finally Sherlock relaxed and pulled away his fingers and then he leaned down and pressed a single gentle kiss against his left buttock. John squirmed and tried to move, but he was still held down by Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please, let me turn around?" John was pushing himself up on his arms, trying to get him to move. He knew he would feel sore in the morning and he wondered how Sherlock must have felt. Suddenly Sherlock was gone, and John stretched his back and then pushed up again, his hand flying to his cock which he stroked desperately for a moment, needing some friction.

"That's quite enough," Sherlock said from where he was sitting next to John. With a smile, John turned around and came to lie on his back. Sherlock was fumbling with the wrapping of the condom, his hands, which had until now been entirely still and sure were shaking slightly.

"Give it here, I'll help you," John sat up and took the condom from him. Ignoring the fact that he was incredibly nervous as well, he threw the wrapping off the bed and leaned over Sherlock, carefully unrolling the condom. Sherlock shuddered and drew a deep breath when John kissed his cock. "Come on, then," John smiled and leaned back. "Like this?"

Sherlock looked at him, lying there, giving himself up. "No," he then said, frowning a bit. "I want you in control."

John didn't quite know what he meant by that, but when Sherlock moved back until he sat propped against the headboard, John understood. With a smile he crawled up to Sherlock and sat down on his lap. Their cocks were pressed together and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, moaning quietly. Then John knelt up until he felt Sherlock's cock press against his arse. He held on to the headboard with one hand, while he took hold of Sherlock's cock with the other. Sherlock's hands were busy stroking a pattern on John's back.

It was incredibly strange to be in this position. It felt very intimate and yet it gave John the chance to decide how fast or slow things would be. Sherlock had been thorough and he didn't need any more lube when he carefully let himself sink down, embracing Sherlock.

"Oh John," Sherlock whispered, watching as he slowly went deeper. When he had taken all of Sherlock in, John moved forward to trap his own cock between their stomachs. "Fuck yes," he grunted against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock took hold of his hips, pulling him even closer.

"Is this okay?"

"Yeah, surprisingly."

Sherlock smiled against his mouth and then started to gently tug and push John, who eventually got the hint and started to move. It felt very strange to feel Sherlock inside of him, but the way Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from shouting as he moved, and the way he could make him grunt and gasp when he clenched his muscles around him made him understand that this was something he really wanted. Eventually he found a way to move which made them both moan. He pushed himself up from his knees, leaning back a bit, managing to still brush his cock against Sherlock's stomach. And then Sherlock leaned forward a bit and a jolt of pleasure rushed through him, causing him to clench his legs and dig his fingernails into Sherlock's thigh. "Oh sweet Jesus."

Sherlock stilled until John relaxed his legs again. "Was that..." John tried to calm down again. "Was that what you felt?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes dark, and on his face an expression which John had never seen before. He understood that maybe it wasn't the physical aspect of things that made Sherlock look like that, but that it was the fact that he had this effect on John which surprised him. He leaned into him and kissed him. Sherlock whimpered and John felt a shudder run through his body. This, all of this, was simply incredible. Within a few weeks he had fallen in love with Sherlock, almost lost him, almost died several times and now Sherlock was making love to him.

He started to move again, carefully lifting himself up and then sinking back down. Sherlock closed his eyes, his lower lip caught in his teeth, a frown on his brow which deepened as John grew faster. Eventually John tried to find the right angle again, the angle which had sent so much pleasure surging through his body. He managed, but was so overwhelmed again that he slumped against Sherlock's chest and simply tried to breathe. How had Sherlock managed to inflict this kind of pleasure on himself without losing his mind?

When he leaned back he saw Sherlock smile, but it wasn't just a simple smile. He was amused. "What?"

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "You're so good at standing pain and now you fall apart."

John blinked a few times, knowing that Sherlock was right, but unable to really follow that train of thought. "It's just ..."

"Too much?"

"Hmm."

"Alright," Sherlock said, pulling him close and grabbing his arse, "relax."

And John gave himself up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and following the gentle movement which Sherlock's hands directed. His cock was brushing against Sherlock's stomach and soon he could feel the movement ease because of a trail of pre-cum which he left on Sherlock's skin. Once they established a rhythm, John found it easier to take back control, and soon he moved slightly faster than Sherlock's hands.

"That okay for you?" he asked into Sherlock's hair, feeling Sherlock's harsh breath on his shoulder, and a nod as an answer. It felt incredible, so unlike anything he had ever felt before and for a moment euphoria washed over him with the realisation that this was just the beginning. "I love you," he gasped, hugging Sherlock even tighter to himself.

After a few moments, he felt Sherlock grow tense. "John?"

"Hmm, yes?" He moved back a bit, surprised again by how different Sherlock looked.

"I need you to finish," he said, his voice sounding slightly strained.

John laughed and kissed him sloppily. "What do you want me to ... ." He couldn't finish that sentence as Sherlock let go of his arse and placed one hand on his chest, pushing him back while the other grabbed his cock. "Oh fuck, Sherlock!"

Sherlock grinned and pushed harder, making him lean back on his hands, almost unable to move. But he didn't have to. Sherlock managed to push against him, and this time he couldn't escape the white heat which blinded him as he hit his prostate again. All he could do was cling to the sheets under his hands. He didn't know which way to go; push into Sherlock's hand or press down to feel the head of Sherlock's cock nudge him right there ...

He was moaning loudly now, and there was no controlling it. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the triumphant smile on Sherlock's face turned him on even more. Whatever he had thought sex with Sherlock would be like, he had had no idea.

"Come, John," Sherlock grunted as his fingers moved faster, increasing their pressure.

And he came, his arms giving in underneath him and he dropped back onto Sherlock's legs. He was aware that he was overstretching the muscles in his thighs, but in this moment he felt nothing but intense pleasure. Somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness he was also aware that Sherlock jerked a few times and that he grunted his name, but there wasn't really anything he could concentrate on.

When he came back down from his high, he felt Sherlock's hand still on him, gently moving up and down the length of his softening cock. He also started to feel the pain in his thighs. "Help," he simply said, holding up his hands so Sherlock could pull him up. He let go of John's cock and wiped his hand on the sheet before he grabbed his hands and pulled him forcefully into his arms.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, carefully lifting him so that he could slip out, leaving John with a strange sense of loss.

John nodded but then he frowned and leaned back so he could look at him. "I wasn't very good," he stated, making Sherlock frown.

"What do you mean?"

"I ... you ... did you ..."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, you're an idiot. Now move off."

John sighed and carefully lifted one leg and moved to Sherlock's side. He couldn't help but smile as Sherlock clumsily picked the condom from his soft cock and managed to spill half of it. The look he earned for his smile made him giggle and kiss Sherlock's shoulder. He would have kissed his lips, but he felt unable to move from the position he was in right then.

Sherlock remained sitting for a few moments before he rolled off the bed, making John giggle. He returned with the towel and threw it at John.

"They're gonna love us," John murmured as he wiped himself clean. "Should we ask for fresh sheets tonight?"

Sherlock shook his head as he climbed back onto the bed and picked the towel from John's hands, throwing it down behind him. "Definitely not."

John grinned. "Who's gonna turn off the light now?"

"Can't you throw something? You're such a good shot. I'm sure if you threw your shoe hard enough you could hit the switch." For a moment the room was completely silent and then both of them started to giggle. "Ah, alright. Just this once." Sherlock rolled off the bed again. John found he was developing a rather lovely technique in doing that. He switched the light off and opened the window before he crawled back into bed where John had rearranged the pillows and pushed away the soiled sheet, covering them with the down duvet. Sherlock moved in close, hugging John to him almost possessively. "Thank you," he whispered into the dark.

"You're amazing, you know that, right?" John added after a while.

He could feel Sherlock smile against his chest. "Good night, John."

"Night, Sherlock."


	20. Chapter Twenty

The first thing John felt when he woke up was how sore he was. His entire body seemed to hurt and he groaned against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock had turned around in his sleep and John had attached himself to his back with his face pressing against his shoulder. He was amazed how natural it seemed to be so close to Sherlock all the time. Apart from the one night, they had slept holding tightly on to each other and it had never been too close or too much. John was very happy about that.

"Morning, John."

"How do you feel?"

"Amazing."

"God, Sherlock, I didn't know you were such a masochist. Oh, wait, no, I did," John added with a grimace, thinking of Sherlock's drug history and refusal of painkillers after being shot.

"I can still feel you," Sherlock explained, inhaling deeply.

"Oh, you sodding romantic." John couldn't help but smile. "I do still feel you, too."

"How long do you think until we can do it again?" Sherlock sounded very eager.

"We should wait until it doesn't hurt anymore, don't you think?"

Sherlock took John's hand and pulled it from his chest, guiding him around his own body until he pressed it against his arse. "Try," he said.

"You're insane, Sherlock. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Please, just try. I'll tell you if it hurts."

John shook his head, but he felt Sherlock's eagerness to pick up where they had left off the night before in his growing arousal. Very carefully he pressed his hand between Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock lifted his leg to make it easier for John and John wondered whether it had been a mistake to introduce an addictive person like Sherlock to such pleasure. When he pushed his middle finger against the tight ring of muscle, Sherlock grew tense. "Okay, that's it," John announced and pulled his hand back. Sherlock grabbed his wrist and held him. "No, wait."

"I'm hurting you."

"But if you go deeper ..." Sherlock said, sounding needy.

John had to chuckle despite himself. Sherlock using the same vocabulary for sex as he did for cases was not something John appreciated, as it would make working with Sherlock rather hard. Ah, there it was again; the pun which had initiated their first real sexual encounter.

He kissed Sherlock's back. "No," he whispered.

And Sherlock whined, stubborn, knowing that he was being denied his wish but still making sure that John would know that he was not okay with it. John laughed at him and squeezed his arse instead. That shut him up for a while.

"Sherlock?" John eventually asked, wanting to make sure that he was truly alright. "You're okay, though, right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit surprised.

"Because for weeks now you're been dropping hints that something is wrong."

"Oh." A pause. "That."

So he wasn't surprised that John asked him about it. "Come on, where does it hurt?"

Sherlock turned around, but he didn't come closer. John felt strangely reminded of the day when he had first kissed him. Sherlock's eyes were wide and vulnerable and of a perfect clear green. "You know what it is. It's all those things that make you cringe and feel sorry for me. I don't want you to pity me. What you said last night, about leaving me had things been different, and what you thought when I was sick and you realised that I never had anyone take care of me. It's not that I didn't have a choice. I could have chosen to be different. I could have shared more, been more open, more accessible. Yet, I never did. I never wanted that."

John felt his throat tighten at the confession, but he tried to keep his face neutral, not wanting to do exactly what Sherlock seemed to despise.

"I don't want you to feel sorry for all of the things you think I have missed out on in my life. I had other experiences. I needed to be like that to function. I couldn't be me if things were different. It just hurts to know that you hurt on my behalf."

John swallowed and frowned. "So how do I fit in there?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even. This sounded an awful lot like a break up talk.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in irritation, and John couldn't help but smile, despite the knot which had formed in his stomach.

"You're my very own enigma," Sherlock said eventually. "You're the code I can't crack. You're the man who will just sit there while I talk about things which you cannot even comprehend morally, and still you'll go and make me tea afterwards." He inhaled deeply. "What hurts is that I know I disappoint you all the time and there is no way that I can change that because of who I am." He looked down, avoiding John's eyes. "And then you go and offer to stay with me nevertheless. And you mean it."

The relief that flooded through John almost made him sob. He wanted to hug the air out of Sherlock, but instead he hesitantly reached out to touch his face. "I disappoint you all the time, too, don't I? Well, we'll just have to suck it up and deal with that. And initially I did fall in love with _you_. Not just with this," he pointed at Sherlock's chest. "Not with this gentle, adorable man who I got to know and love recently, but with the brilliant, arrogant sod, who shoots at inanimate objects when he's frustrated ..."

"Bored," Sherlock said with a small sniff.

"Frustrated," John continued with a smile, "and who will be mean to everyone, including the ones he loves, when he feels like it. And yes, I was angry with you, and I'm sorry. And yes, I will be angry with you again, and I will want to strangle you and make you cry and beg for me to stay. I know that I will feel like that, one day. I just hope that I'll be able to man up and not do that then, even if you're not going to notice, most likely, because sometimes you are quite simply an idiot," he smiled and gently stroked his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone. "And there will be times when I'll despise you for who you are, for being right all the bloody time. But Sherlock, I love that prick. I seriously love that arrogant git who will make everyone feel terrible just because you don't find a taxi right away or Lestrade doesn't let you work on a certain case."

"Because you're also a masochist," Sherlock stated drily.

John laughed and finally leaned in to kiss him gently on the lips. "I love you, you bloody idiot."

Sherlock was quiet for a while, but soon John could feel him getting nervous. He wanted to get up and be active, but John wanted to have him close and silent right next to him.

"Come on, John, let's go and walk around a bit. I'm sure we'll find a place where we'll have a lovely view over Winchester and be alone."

John smiled, remembering his little bout of laziness the day before. "You sure you want to actually walk?"

Sherlock sighed and then kissed him. "Yes. I find the fresh air rather beneficial. Or maybe it's the certainty that you're not going anywhere. And now I'll take a shower, and you can join me if you like. I wouldn't mind ..." he stopped talking and untangled himself from John.

"Wouldn't mind what?"

"Never mind."

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"You never do that. Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Don't finish your thoughts."

"It's not important."

"You're endlessly frustrating."

Sherlock just grinned and walked into the bathroom. For a few minutes, John just lay there. It was true; he pitied Sherlock even if he didn't want to. It would be hard work to stop feeling sorry for him, but he knew he could change. Sherlock had changed so profoundly, and at the same time he finally understood who he really was.

When he came into the bathroom, Sherlock was combing his wet hair with his fingers, a towel around his waist. He watched through the mirror as John stepped into the shower and turned on the water. "You do know that these jeans of yours were second hand, right?"

Sherlock smirked. "You do know that despite what I just said you are sometimes incredibly predictable, right?"

"You never knew I was going to ask that."

"Yes I did."

"Did you, though?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"What? They actually have these things properly cleaned before they sell them."

"And you're not creeped out?"

"I don't _creep out_ , John."

"Come on then." John smiled, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t resist showing off.

"He is twenty three years old and has recently taken up rugby; as a hobby, not a competitive sport. He gained muscle weight and outgrew the jeans. The second pair also belonged to him. He kept those a little longer, but grew too big for them, too. The first pair was one of his favourites, he kept them very well. They were a present from his boyfriend for his twentieth birthday. Said boyfriend could be the reason why he took up the sport, but then he probably would have kept the jeans. So the boyfriend left him for a rugby player and he decided to try and spite him by becoming a player himself."

"You should do one of those mind reading things on the telly," John remarked with a grin while he was soaping himself up. "And there is no way on earth that you are right with your deductions."

"Shut up!" Sherlock scowled at him through the mirror.

John laughed and hurried to get out of the shower while Sherlock was still in the bathroom. He wrapped a towel around his hips and stood in front of Sherlock, raising his chin, waiting for a kiss. Sherlock just eyed him for a second, seemingly considering why John would do what he did. Then he did kiss him, and what started as a rather timid peck suddenly turned into a searing kiss, during which both of them lost their towels and which ended abruptly when John hit his head rather painfully on the tiles against which Sherlock was pressing him while he threw his head back as Sherlock attacked his throat.

"Fuck!" John groaned, rubbing his head.

"Are you okay?"

"Ouch," John said, pulling a grimace.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock sounded a little heartbroken. "I didn't mean for that to happen."

"It's okay. I'm just ..."

"Let me make it better," Sherlock offered and gently rubbed the spot just above John's right ear, making him forget the pain for a second because he tried really hard not to shiver from the sensation. Goosebumps rose on his chest and arms and Sherlock smiled in fascination. "I was right," he murmured to himself.

John closed his eyes. He didn't really want to know what Sherlock meant by that, but somehow the thought that Sherlock had theories about his physical reactions to his touch excited him.

"It still hurts," he said after a few moments, willing Sherlock to keep going.

"Your reactions are similar to that of a cat."

"What?"

"The ears, you see."

"No, I don't."

Sherlock smiled and gently kissed his forehead. "Come on, let's go."

With a sigh, John picked up the two towels, as Sherlock had already made his way into the bedroom, not bothering with any further drying.

"Your hair is still wet, you can't go out like this," he remarked when he found Sherlock stepping into the other pair of jeans.

"John, I don't need you to be my mother."

"I just don't want you in bed with fever again, that's all."

"Can't say you didn't enjoy that night," Sherlock pointed out.

"I don't complain about your seemingly heightened urge to get me off when you have a fever, but I don't want you to be miserable, is that understood?"

Sherlock tipped his head to the left, eyeing him as if he didn't quite know what to do with him, but eventually fished his shirt from the bed.

John badly wanted to ask him to wear a t-shirt underneath, but he knew he would merely be mocked for it. Instead he went to his bag and pulled out a burgundy jumper whose arms had always been a little long for him. He threw it at Sherlock who caught it, slightly surprised.

"No complaints," John said, turning to get dressed. When he saw Sherlock dressed in jeans and his jumper, his heart gave a start. For a moment, all he could do was stare. He had always appreciated Sherlock's style, but he had rarely stared at him because of it. Now, in the clothes of a completely normal person he looked a world apart from his usual self.

Sherlock looked back at him, reading his thoughts in his face and drawing his own conclusions. "If you're this desperate to get me out of my clothes again, you could have just left it."

"I need to buy a camera."

"You got the phone," Sherlock said without missing a beat. Apparently he wasn't even aware of what he had just said.

"We left the phones." John said carefully.

"You left the phones. I took them, for emergencies. Only, I didn't consider me being asleep to be an emergency."

John blushed. He could feel heat rising in his ears and cheeks and he cursed himself. He wanted to be mad at Sherlock; not only because just yesterday he had lied about them, but also because he had found out about the pictures on his phone. And now he couldn't even be mad.

"You do know that we agreed to not take the phones?"

"Yes."

"And you still brought them."

"For emergencies, yes. I did not intend to use them, but then last night when you slept I wanted to save your expression, just in case I accidentally deleted it. And your phone has the better camera, so it was obvious that I would use yours."

"No, Sherlock, this is not how this works." John frowned, unable to master any other serious expression; not after Sherlock had said something like this.

"You're glad I brought them. And you have no reason to be mad, since I didn't use the phones for anything other than taking the picture. I didn't open any of the texts by Sarah or Lestrade ..."

"You're not making it better, you know?"

"You can check if you like."

"Thanks for your consideration."

"I'm sure Sarah had something delightful to say to you."

"You're an arse."

Sherlock just smirked and put on his coat.

"I'm still getting a camera and I'll make you pose and all and then send one to your mother."

"You're not."

John squared his shoulders and raised his chin as he came to stand in front of Sherlock.

"Watch me."


	21. chapter Twenty-One

Since Sherlock seemed adamant to leave the hotel, John folded the sheets and put Sherlock's trousers on top and then went down to the reception to let them know about the laundry. They hadn’t taken down the ‘do not disturb’ sign since they had arrived, so nobody had come to clean or change the sheets.

The man did not even raise an eyebrow. Well, considering it was the wedding suite, they probably didn't expect anything else. Maybe they were even surprised that they had made it through two nights without any earlier request for new sheets. John knew he was blushing again and he decided to stop thinking about what others might or might not think about them. Sherlock seemed to fare quite well with that attitude.

Outside, he found Sherlock staring at the neighbouring houses.

"You're not paranoid, are you?" John asked him.

Sherlock just turned around and started walking. "Sheep frequently graze by the side of the road. They have miles and miles of room, and they choose to be in the one place that poses danger to them. Same goes for cliffs. Why is that?"

John grinned. "They're quite a bit like a certain consulting detective, don't you think?"

"Or like a certain army doctor," Sherlock retorted.

"Touché," John laughed and bumped playfully into Sherlock, who didn't look down, but John could see the barely hidden grin.

They bought breakfast in a pub, and Sherlock ate all of it, which made John rather happy. After they were done, he pulled him in for a long kiss, smiling at Sherlock's slightly confused look, and then proceeded to kiss that look off his face.

The remark about kissing in public was lost on John as he pulled on his coat. Today, he didn't care.

Outside, Sherlock decided to walk east and John followed him without really paying attention. Only when it started to rain did he notice that they had walked quite far from the town's centre. "I left the umbrella," John noted, slightly miserable as the icy rain fell down on them. Sherlock simply shrugged and walked on. For a moment John was mad at him for not even suggesting to find a roof to stand under, but then Sherlock stepped onto the street which led uphill and suddenly lost his balance. His arms were failing widely as his feet couldn't seem to find their hold and he only managed to not fall on his arse because of a ridiculous jump and balance act which left him standing with his feet wide apart and his arms stretched out to both sides. John forgot everything he had wanted to say. Instead he burst out laughing.

The rain had turned to ice on the street, and while John's shoes were doing a good job stopping him from slipping, Sherlock's expensive black shiny shoes obviously did not.

John knew that Sherlock hated it to be made fun of, but he couldn't reign in his laughter. Tears were running down his face and he wiped at his cheeks with gloved fingers, watching as Sherlock remained stock-still in his position, undoubtedly wanting to glare at him but not daring to turn around.

It took John a while to calm down again and when he finally caught his breath, he straightened and walked up to Sherlock, who looked on in contempt. The look set John off into giggles again, and as he looked at Sherlock he carefully stroked his cheek to show him that he didn't mean to upset him. After a few moments, Sherlock's expression softened.

"Help?" he eventually said, sounding ridiculously lost.

"Sherlock," John simply said, taking his glove off to stroke his cheek again, feeling icy water against his fingers. Then he stepped closer and hugged him tightly, feeling Sherlock's shoes slip away underneath him. "I can't carry you, but you'll have to make it to the sidewalk, alright?"

Sherlock hugged him back, huffing against his cheek. "This could ruin me if I was on a case. I need to get other shoes."

John laughed out loud again. "It would also make the Yard stop calling you a freak."

"Oh, Donavan and Anderson would certainly have a field day," Sherlock remarked drily.

"It did look spectacular, though," John said, pressing his lips to Sherlock's ear.

"I'm glad I could entertain you." The sarcasm in his voice made John sigh.

"I could just let you go again, you know?"

Sherlock instinctively held him more tightly. "Just get me off this street."

"Sorry I laughed."

"John!"

"Fine, come on." John stepped to the side, which made Sherlock slide around a bit again and his hands grabbed John's coat tightly. "Stop that, you have to relax. Have you never walked on ice before?"

"Not on ice that was forming under my feet as I was walking, no."

John grinned and plucked Sherlock's left hand from his waist. "Don't move," he instructed and draped Sherlock's right arm over his shoulder. When he started to walk, Sherlock simply slipped away from underneath him and ended up almost falling again, barely holding himself up by clinging to John's arms.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John was laughing again and Sherlock glared. It was still raining and it wouldn't get any better, so John tested the ground again and then pulled Sherlock up.

"Stay," he said, holding up his index finger as if Sherlock was a dog. Then he turned with his back to his lover, grinning all the while. "Come on, love, up you go."

To his surprise, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and eventually climbed up onto his back. John was laughing so hard he barely made it under the nearest tree where the ground was not covered in ice. When he let Sherlock down, he had to lean against a wall. They would never make it home like this, and they were fairly far away from any shops or cafés now. He looked at Sherlock, whose hair was starting to freeze. The temperature had dropped drastically over the past half hour, and they clearly needed to get out of the rain. "Wait here, I'll be back," he announced and walked down the street instead of up. They had come along a small park, and the only houses there were closed and empty; probably holiday homes which were now deserted. There were more of these houses ahead of him and he tried a few doors, but all were locked. He found a phone booth and pulled out a few coins with fingers which were now stiff from the cold. When he dialled the number of the cab company which had advertisement plastered all over the inside of the booth, he was reminded of the lift shaft. For a moment he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly as the phone rang.

He was told that because of the weather, all public transport had been suspended. John didn't argue. Instead he was glad that his shoes were thankfully not forcing him to slide and slip around and embarrass himself like Sherlock had.

When he came back he found Sherlock standing pressed against the wall of the house, shivering slightly. "Oh, Sherlock, come on, we need to get you somewhere inside."

"Do we?" Sherlock asked, but his sarcasm was spoiled by a shiver which ran through his entire body.

John simply grabbed him and dragged him along the sidewalk, so he could hold on to the wall with one hand and use John to hold himself up with the other. Eventually they came to a stable and John left him standing again and forced the door open. When he came back out he was grinning. "It's such a cliché," he said happily, "but it'll have to do."

Sherlock needed John's help even to get into the barn and when he dropped down on a wooden bench by the door, exhaling loudly, John laughed again.

"Shut up!"

"I am so glad I got to see you flail like this," John answered, grinning as he closed the door. It wasn't exactly warm inside, but it was dry and felt somewhat warmer.

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead he stood up again and started to explore the barn.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, "come back here."

He stopped, and after a moment he did turn around. "What now?"

"We need to get dry."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, the ice in it having melted. "There, dry."

"You're such a ..." John stopped before he said something which would undoubtedly offend him. "Come here."

And finally he did listen and walked up to John. John started unbuttoning his coat and pushed it over his shoulders. The jumper underneath was dry. He made sure by running his hands over Sherlock's chest and down to his stomach. Sherlock squirmed, making John smile.

Then he unwrapped his scarf which was already wet and used it as a makeshift towel to dry Sherlock's hair a bit. "There, that's much better," he murmured, gently patting his cheek.

Sherlock seemed unable to decide whether to stare him down or find him adorable. It was a very odd mix and John found it hard to keep his face straight. Instead, he tried to focus on the way Sherlock looked now; so unlike himself.

"John," Sherlock simply said. He knew that Sherlock felt strange to be looked at like this, but he couldn't help himself. His hair was a complete mess, his cheeks reddened from the cold. John loved the way he stood there, still a little hunched as if he didn't trust his feet, despite being on dry and solid ground now.

"What do we do about your shoes?"

"They never did that in London," Sherlock stared at his shoes as if they had personally betrayed him. Well, they had, in a way.

"You have an incredible sense of balance," John noted, not quite serious. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, his lips tightening as if he was biting back a hurtful remark. Then he took a few long steps towards John and kissed him hard. "Need to warm up," he justified himself in between kisses.

John smiled into the kiss and gently tugged Sherlock's shirt out of his jeans. His skin was hot despite the weather. The jumper had served its purpose. "John, cold hands," Sherlock grunted, but he didn't try to shake him off.

They kissed for a long time, and even though it was an incredibly heated kiss, Sherlock kept his hands out of John's clothes, and John only stroked Sherlock's back and didn't venture anywhere else. Eventually they parted. Warming up had definitely been achieved.

"Your hair is still wet," Sherlock murmured as he drew his hands through John's hair. "As always, you only cared about me," he added, speaking very quietly. It sounded almost like an accusation and John knew why.

"Sorry," he said, shedding his own coat and pulling his jumper over his head, using it to pat his hair dry. Sherlock watched him for a moment and then turned around, venturing into the half dark of the barn. Then, as he opened a door in the back, a small gleeful sound escaped him. "What?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer and John heaved a sigh and followed him. He found Sherlock on one knee in front of a very fluffy looking sheep. When John had thought that Sherlock would look ridiculously adorable holding the skull in a Hamlet like fashion he had underestimated the effect which Sherlock had on him as he stared into the golden eyes of a sheep in a mixture of adoration and clinical interest.

"She's not afraid of me," Sherlock announced. "Therefore their vital instincts are clearly not in working order."

John chuckled. "Did you try staring it down? I don't think sheep are very impressed by threatening looks." He received just one of those looks as an answer.

The small stable held about a dozen sheep, all of them completely white with no coloured marking of ownership. John wished now, more than ever, that he had brought a camera. An idea struck him. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock kept staring at the sheep, probably trying to silently communicate with it. John bit his lip. "Can I leave you with her for a few minutes without having to fear to be cheated on?"

Sherlock shot up from where he was kneeling, blinking as his blood needed a second to reach his head. "John, did you really just stoop so low as to make a sheep shagging joke?"

"There was never an opportunity more fitting," John defended himself with a wide grin.

For a moment Sherlock remained unimpressed, but then his expression changed. Suddenly the air between them was burning and John inhaled sharply, reaching for the door behind to stabilise him. While he was surprised by the sudden mood change, Sherlock was not. With a growl he flattened himself against John, pushing him against the door frame, cupping his head as to make sure he wouldn't hit it again and kissed him with such passion that John let go of the wooden frame and instead clutched at Sherlock in a desperate attempt to keep upright.

In a flash it was over. He blinked as Sherlock disentangled himself from him and stepped back. "What in the world ..." John tried to catch his breath, but it seemed impossible.

"No reason to be jealous," Sherlock said with a smirk and knelt down in front of the quiet sheep again.

John laughed until he was even more out of breath. "You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days," he muttered, half heartedly kicking straw in Sherlock's general direction.

"Don't slip on the ice," Sherlock retorted smugly without turning around.

For a second John considered paying Sherlock back, but he didn't want to waste any more time. Without a word he closed the door and, pulling his jumper and his coat back on, and went outside and back into town as quickly as he could. The stores were open, but there were no people around. The department store seemed deserted, but when he entered a small photography shop, he was welcomed with a smile. "Rubbish outside, innit?" the man behind a small desk greeted him. "How can I help you?"

John smiled, remembering that he had no idea of the balance on his bank account, but frankly, he didn't care. After what had happened he's happily take some bribe money from Mycroft. "I need a camera. Just a small one, but it needs to react quickly. You know, when you try to photograph animals or children who run around all the time. Don't want blurry pictures," he grinned, thinking of Sherlock's resistance to be photographed which he would undoubtedly encounter as soon as he wanted him to pose.

The man was extremely helpful with his advice, letting John test a few models before selling him a small digital camera for half its price as it was an outdated model and yet exactly what John wanted. He promised to send him any wild life pictures he would take, and, grinning, went to a shoe store which he had spotted as he had arrived. He wished he could call Sherlock to see how he was holding up and for a moment he considered to just throw his rule in the wind and get their phones, but then he decided against it and bought Sherlock some lovely walking boots for which he would make Sherlock pay in whichever currency he chose.

He found Sherlock sitting in the middle of the little flock on a small stool, simply observing.

"Any break-through?" John asked as he watched him with a smile.

"They are easy to scare, and they react the same way every time. They seem to forget that I am no threat and as soon as I get loud, they try to run away."

"You _got loud_?" John asked, feeling slightly sorry for the unsuspecting fluffy animals which were now happily munching away on some hay.

"I yelled, what else could I do to achieve the effect?"

" _PETA_ would love you," John retorted with a snort and when Sherlock finally looked at him, confusion written all over his face, John had to fight hard not to laugh at him again. "Animal rights organisation."

"Whatever," Sherlock answered and finally got up. "You got me boots you wonderful man," he exclaimed even before John had the chance to tell him about it. Instead of being irritated, John simply grinned happily as Sherlock picked up the bag which sat next to the door. He toed off his shoes and experimentally stepped into the right boot.

"Fit?" John asked, slightly worried that he's misremembered Sherlock's size and would have to go back to the store.

Sherlock simply smiled and put the other one on. He looked even stranger now, John noticed. Like a farm hand who was ready to tackle his day's chores. And he looked more attractive than he had any right to be.

"John?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at Sherlock's face, realising he had stared quite blatantly. "Umm, sorry," he murmured, trying to shake off the feeling of awe.

"No, it's ... fine," Sherlock said, somewhat coyly.

"Close the door," John said, sounding calm again. For a moment, Sherlock looked a little unsure about that request, but he didn't question it and closed the wooden door. Wordlessly, John pulled the small camera out of his coat pocket. "Don't move," he said, making it sound like a warning.

Sherlock remained as he was, completely still. John took a picture. No flash. He knew he could get decent pictures out of this camera if only his hands would stop shaking. He used the flash on the next one, shaking his head slightly. No, he'd have to get him out of this dim light, preferably naked and begging for his attention.

Okay, wrong thought. Very wrong. But so good. He put the camera back and still Sherlock didn't move. So he moved to grab Sherlock's scarf and threw it at him. "Back to the hotel then."

"Not here?"

He was surprised by the question, guessing that Sherlock had anticipated some sort of sexual encounter in this barn.

"Not here. I don't want to get arrested. I also don't want to disturb the sheep. And it's too cold."

"There's nobody here but us. No one has been here for at least seven hours, and it will most likely be another eight before anyone comes to check on them. The door is closed, so they wouldn't be disturbed. I'm also sure that it would be warm enough very soon."

John knew he was losing this game, but he was adamant at being the sensible one of the two. "The bed is more comfortable. We also don't have what we need."

Sherlock smiled. "I do not necessarily consider any bed to be of particular importance considering what I want to do with you. And I certainly have all I need," he nodded at John, who flushed with pleasure at Sherlock's exclamation.

"I meant condoms," he argued.

"You want to fuck me?" Sherlock seemed slightly surprised, which he had any right to be, considering how stubborn John had been this morning.

John stood a little straighter at Sherlock's use of words. Trust him to call things by their name in such a situation. He couldn’t remember Sherlock being this blunt when it came to sex before. "That was my intention, yes."

"Was or is?"

"Keep on talking like this and I'm not going to care for condoms or lubricant anymore." He didn't mean it. He would never do that to Sherlock, especially not since they both hadn't quite figured things out yet, but saying it gave him a strange confidence; something which he had lacked a bit when it came to sex with Sherlock. And the effect it had on Sherlock was also quite remarkable. He could see him getting aroused. Colour rose to his cheeks and his hands started to fidget at his sides. Eventually he exhaled noisily, biting his lips as to keep himself from talking.

"Undress," John ordered, feeling somewhat high on the power he had over Sherlock in that moment. "Slowly," he added as Sherlock started to push his jumper over his head. So Sherlock took his time with his shirt, his eyes locked with John's. Somewhere in the back of his mind John realised that Sherlock was actually the one who got his will, but he didn't care. He got Sherlock to strip for him, what more could he ask for. Just as Sherlock flicked open the buttons of his jeans, a loud noise came from behind the door. Sherlock froze.

For a few seconds, neither of them dared to breathe, but then a string of suppressed curses reached them and Sherlock bent down, picking up John's jumper where he had dropped it, shaking it free of dirt and straw and pulled it on, ignoring his own shirt. When he had closed his jeans again, he quietly walked up to John, pressing the shirt into his hands. "Out, check out the back. They are trying to steal the sheep."

John stared at him, still a bit dazed by the show and the shock of interruption which had followed so unexpectedly. Before he could respond, Sherlock pressed a quick and heated kiss to his lips and pushed him towards the door.

Outside, John stuffed the shirt into his coat pocket and rubbed his face. What in the world had just happened? Oh, right, burglars. Thank God they hadn't been naked and going at it like rabbits. With a snort he carefully walked around the barn, flattening himself against the wall, glancing around the corner. How had they not heard the truck approaching? Two men were walking out of the stable, carrying one sheep each. This time, however, the sheep weren't quiet but were baaing as if their life depended on it. John suppressed a giggle, and, instead of giving himself away, pulled out the camera and took a few pictures from where he was hiding. Then he put it back into his pocket and waited for something to happen.

The men went back in and for a moment, only the noise of the sheep could be heard until suddenly a violent roar came from inside the stable and the two men came chasing out, slipping on the ice as they tried to run towards their car. This was John's chance. He jumped out and grabbed the man who was closest to him, tackling him and holding him down on the ground. Surprised by the sudden attack from the side, the other man stared at John as Sherlock threw himself on the other man in a slightly less elegant fashion than John had, but just as efficiently.

"Sherlock?" John asked to break the awkward silence which followed. The sheep from the stable had filed out of the building but remained close, sensing the slippery ground.

"Don't move!" Sherlock said, sounding very sure of himself. "Everything you say can be used against you in court."

"You're not the police," the man who was held down by John said, making John pull at his arm a little tighter, causing no damage, but undoubtedly hurting him.

When John looked back up he saw Sherlock as he used a rope to bind the man's hands behind his back. For a moment, John was distracted by how quickly and efficiently he worked with that rope, but then he watched on as Sherlock yanked him up to his feet and led him back into the barn. A few moments later he came out, repeating the action with the other man.

"Not the police, no," he answered with a half smile, "just a consulting detective on holiday. Tough luck."

John burst into giggles again, but shut up when he caught Sherlock's expression. It wasn't that he was angry at John for losing it in this situation. Sherlock simply looked at him as if he was a marvel and that made his heart skip a beat and then hammer away.

After Sherlock had manhandled the other man into the stable as well, John tried to shoo the sheep back in, but it didn't quite work. It did work, though, when Sherlock came back out and let out another roar like he had when he had scared the two men; the sheep all hurried to get back inside, leaving John to drop to his knees in helpless laughter. "Fuck, Sherlock. You'll be the death of me," he gasped for breath.

"Come, John, let's give the local police a call." They both went back to the phone booth from which John had called the cab company, and, in a few words, Sherlock explained to them what had happened and where they could find the two thieves.

John leaned his head against the cold glass, looking at Sherlock's flushed face. "How did you know they were thieves and not the owners of the sheep? You know that we could get into real trouble for restraining them."

"Trust me, they were. I will explain it to you later, if you'll still want me to, but I gather you're not quite as interested in my deduction as in my ability to tie a knot?" he raised one eyebrow suggestively and John lunged forward, crowding Sherlock into the tiny space between the window and the phone. He knew he'd probably bruise Sherlock, but judging by the eagerness with which he was kissed back, his friend didn't seem to care much about that.

Sherlock grabbed his hair, pulling him even closer as he wrapped one and then the other leg around John's hips. Suddenly John realised that carrying Sherlock earlier must have triggered some kind of fantasy in him which now bubbled to the surface. He plucked Sherlock's left hand out of his hair and placed it on top of the phone box. "Hold on," he grunted as he took hold of Sherlock's arse to pull him higher and then push him against the glass again to keep him up.

There was no room, and he knew he couldn't stay in his position for long, but Sherlock pushed against him, tightening his legs so he could feel his heat against his stomach and John attacked his mouth again. This was the most indecent thing he had done in his life, and god it felt great. He pushed harder and harder still, making Sherlock shudder. Then, after quite a bit of fumbling and trying to dig his way under Sherlock's coat, he pushed his hand into his jeans and grabbed his arse again. Sherlock jerked, his right elbow hitting the uppermost window, sending a shower of glass to the ground. "Fuck," John grunted, trying to keep his knees from giving in. Seconds and he would collapse.

Sherlock carefully dropped his legs and came to stand, John still pressing against him. For a moment they simply breathed against each other, but when the sound of distant sirens reached their ears, John stepped back, almost dropping to the ground as his knees were indeed very wobbly now. Sherlock took his arm and held him up. "You okay?"

John nodded, somewhat delirious. How Sherlock had found that on-switch that he hadn't known about was a mystery, but he had, and it could turn into a rather big problem. Well, only if they weren't at home. If they were at home it would be the opposite of a problem. He chuckled. "Are you?"

"Yes, fine."

Sherlock pushed the door open and stalked outside. For a moment John wondered whether he had been hurt after all, but then, just as the police car pulled up next to the barn, he realised his mistake.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a major warning and some gruesome imagery; if you want to see it, scroll down to the end; because the warning = spoiler.

Sherlock walked straight up to the police car and started talking to the officers in a fashion that made John stand back and observe rather than barge in. The police seemed surprised, and one of them almost slipped on the ice as he walked towards the stable. John bit back a laugh. He was still high on everything that had happened.

"Please call DI Lestrade of New Scotland Yard if you need confirmation that I frequently work with the police," Sherlock said, obviously very much in favour of getting out of there, and, quite possibly, out of his soiled trousers. Instead, the two policemen insisted in just doing what Sherlock had proposed, leaving him to roll his eyes in annoyance.

Eventually their inquiries seemed to lead to a satisfactory conclusion and they ventured into the barn, leaving Sherlock to stand straight and unmoving outside the door.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I would have been more careful ..."

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said, cutting him off. "I'm fine, don't apologise."

To both of their surprise, a second police car came to a halt next to them. "Mr Holmes? Dr. Watson?"

"Yes?" John shared a surprised look with Sherlock.

"I have orders to take you back to your hotel for security reasons."

"Orders by whom."

"The boss," the officer said with a shrug.

Sherlock shook his head subtly. "Can I speak to your _boss_?"

"I don't think that this is possible."

"If you have orders and we refuse, you are not doing your job right." Sherlock held out his hand in an impatient manner. The officer sighed and pulled out his cell phone, dialling a number and waiting for the line to connect. "Sir, Jonas here. I'm very sorry to disturb you ... pardon? Oh, of course." He looked utterly confused as he handed the phone over to Sherlock.

"Mycroft, what makes you think you can just order us around on such a beautiful day as this." Sherlock didn't sound quite as sarcastic as John had anticipated. He watched as the colour drained from Sherlock's face. "Right, of course. On our way." He ended the call and opened the door, giving John a gentle nudge. He was silent during the ride, and John did not ask why, knowing that he would talk to him eventually. Only after he had wordlessly left the car, leaving John to mutter an apology and his thanks, he took hold of his sleeve and stopped him. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes blazing with something which almost scared him. "I love you, John. You need to know that I do."

"I know that! What's wrong, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock walked on and into the hotel without any further explanation. When he caught up with him, John found Sherlock standing in their hotel room, staring at a thick envelope on their bed. He didn't move. Endless minutes ticked by until he finally inhaled sharply and walked into the bathroom. John could hear a sob and then Sherlock threw up. In a flash John was beside him. "Sherlock, fucking hell, are you alright?"

Were those tears on his face? Tears, dripping from his cheekbones into the toilet? Sherlock was breathing frantically, his stomach visibly contracting again and again until there was nothing left in him. His hands were shaking and his face was a mask of pain. Eventually he seemed sure that he wouldn't throw up again and carefully leaned back, wiping at his face but missing. The tears were still there.

John wanted to cry. His heart broke seeing Sherlock in such a state, especially after a morning like this. He grabbed a towel and wet it, gently wiping Sherlock's face. Then he handed him tissues so he could blow his nose and flushed down what Sherlock had thrown up.

Closing the lid of the toilet, he made Sherlock sit on it, making sure he was holding on to the rim of the sink while he filled a glass with water. "Here, get it out," he whispered, gently rubbing Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock rinsed his mouth and John refilled the glass and made him drink a bit. When he was sure Sherlock was fine for now, he knelt in front of him, his hands on Sherlock's thighs. "What happened? What's in that envelope?"

Sherlock eyes filled with tears again as he looked down on him. "They found him," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "They found him in the river. He's dead."

John stared at him for a long time, wanting so badly to believe that Sherlock was right, that Moriarty was gone, but he had his doubts.

"He could have staged it. How can you know it's him?"

Sherlock exhaled shakily. "Mycroft."

"Even he can be fooled, don't you think?"

"I killed him," he whispered, in awe of what he had done. "I killed him."

"Sherlock, listen to me. Can you walk? Let's get you into bed, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and wordlessly let John help him up. When he sat down on the bed, he avoided looking at the envelope. "Do you want me to open it?" John asked, carefully running his hand through Sherlock's hair.

A sob broke the silence which followed. "I didn't ... I never ..."

"Sherlock, don't." John knew he was asking too much. He also knew that Sherlock's state did not only mean that he was relieved. He had not only hated Moriarty. Not entirely.

"John, I need," his fingers tearing at the sheets. He didn't finish his sentence.

But John knew what he wanted, what he needed. He had never expected to be able to hate Moriarty more than he already did, especially not beyond his death. He stood up and walked around the bed, pulling the envelope towards him. There was no way he would let Sherlock get back into drugs. "You don't," he simply stated and opened the envelope. What he saw made him lose his breath.

A large number of autopsy photographs slipped out of the paper. He dropped the envelope and started looking through them.

There could be no doubt.

It was obvious by the colour and texture of his skin that he had drowned, but despite the bloating he could still doubtlessly make out the fresh scar of his shot and an even more recent one, close to his heart, by Sherlock. They had performed a complete autopsy, including the removal, measurement and weighing of his internal organs. The last picture showed his body, sewn back together. Frankenstein's monster, John thought, and for a moment he was gripped by the irrational fear that the dead man on the photo would open his eyes and return to life. He dropped the photos back on the bed and barely made it to the nearest chair before his legs gave out underneath him.

When he opened his eyes he found Sherlock looking back at him. He seemed strangely calm, as if the battle he had fought with himself was over. "John." It was all he said, nothing else.

"I know," John answered after a while. He inhaled deeply and stood up. "Tea?"

The look on Sherlock's face made John's heart stop for a second. He knew Sherlock would never be able to tell him what he felt, but right in this moment he could read it on his face. "Don't move, I'll be right back." He stood up, finally feeling somewhat relieved. He was almost out of the door when he turned and walked back to Sherlock, pulling him into a tight hug. "You're so much greater than him," he whispered and kissed his hair. Then, without another word he walked downstairs and returned with two mugs of tea and a bottle of scotch under his arm.

Sherlock had remained where he was. So he didn't want to see the pictures, John understood. "Here," he held one mug out to Sherlock who took it with a small, barely visible smile.

"Thank you, John. Really. Thank you."

John smiled and sipped on his own tea. "Yeah, the tea's good, isn't it," he said, sniffing. Sherlock laughed and fresh tears spilled into his mug.

For a while they simply drank their tea, neither looking at the other. When Sherlock had finished, he inhaled shakily and put the mug down on the bed. "We have fresh sheets," he said, ignoring the photos. "And they cleaned my trousers. Good, now we know they work fast." With that he stood up and walked into the bathroom. "John," he could hear him call out, and it wasn't a question.

John could see that Sherlock was still weak in the knees, so he made him stand in front of the sink to hold on to it while he took of his jeans and underwear. Sherlock must have been extremely uncomfortable the entire time, and John gently pushed away his shirt and jumper and kissed his hip. Then he stood up and shed his own clothes.

Sherlock watched him through the mirror while he brushed his teeth and turned around when John was naked, quirking an eyebrow at him. But John did not let himself be distracted. He was still in doctor mode and knew that the shock hadn't worn off yet. So he pulled the jumper over Sherlock's head but didn't allow himself to look at his body in any other way than to check whether he was alright.

Before Sherlock could take hold of him, he walked over to the shower and turned on the water, waiting until it had reached the perfect temperature. "In," he simply ordered, watching as Sherlock took a few careful steps into his direction. Just to be sure, John took him by the arm and helped him step into the tub, following and drawing the curtain closed. He had plugged the tub so that the hot water would not be lost and made Sherlock sit down while he removed the shower head from its hold in the wall to bring it down to them. There wasn't a single word of protest. He angled the shower in a way that the hot water was freely running over Sherlock's shoulders while he gently pushed the hair out of his face with his free hand.

He didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything he could have said. He should be absolutely elated, but seeing Sherlock in this state made him feel quite the opposite. And Sherlock just looked at him, calmly, as if he had just deleted everything that happened, but John knew better.

After the tub had filled a bit around them he switched the water from the shower head to the tab and picked upthe body wash. He was aware that it wasn't exactly a comfortable position in which they both sat there, knees drawn to their bodies, barely touching, but he didn't know how much body contact Sherlock was willing to have. His doubts were quickly dispersed when Sherlock huffed and then simply stretched out his legs around John, who willingly did the same. Suddenly they were wrapped around each other, and all John could do was slowly spread the shower gel he had squeezed into his hand over Sherlock's back.

Sherlock pulled him flush against him and onto his lap. It felt perfect, but not in a sexual sense. It simply felt right. John closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock's neck and Sherlock did the same. Only when the water rose too high and they had to turn it off did they let go of each other. Well, John let go and turned off the tab while Sherlock simply leaned back and then pulled John back on top of him. For a moment John struggled because his legs had still been wrapped around Sherlock, but with a bit of wriggling he freed and repositioned himself so that he was leaning over Sherlock, who immediately wrapped his legs around John's hips, forcing him against him.

They were still silent, but John could sense that Sherlock was slowly emerging from the strange state the news of Moriarty's death had put him into. They would have to talk about it eventually, but right now he needed to make sure that Sherlock had something else to concentrate on. He needed to be his cocaine and his morphine and his case and his novelty and his interest and his protector; and he would.

"I'm sorry I made you come," he whispered against Sherlock's chin, nudging it gently.

"You're not," Sherlock simply answered, lowering his head to be able to look at John. "If none of this had happened and we had been free to go after the incident, you would feel very different about it."

"I'm just not used to ..." he sighed, bringing up his right hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I'm not used to being able to do that."

The chuckle which he received as an answer warmed his heart. "Oh John," Sherlock sighed and hugged him hard for a moment. Then, after allowing them a brief moment of silence, he ran both of his hands down John's back until he reached his arse. "There is an alarming disparity in the number of our orgasms during the past four days. I believe I would like to even out that score."

John pushed himself up and looked at himin confusion. "Are you serious?" He did not trust the relief which flooded him. Something about this was not right and he would not be weak and give in to Sherlock's repression of the fact that his greatest challenge had just ended and that his one true arch enemy had died.

"John," Sherlock started, but it was obvious that he was aware of John's thoughts. "I want to see you happy. You deserve to be happy." He broke off, closing his eyes briefly in annoyance of his own vulnerability.

"Sherlock, now is not the time to be happy." He touched his lover's face and gave him a soft kiss. "I can't be happy when I know you're not."

That statement seemed to irritate Sherlock. He frowned at John as if he didn't quite understand what he was trying to tell him. "Does it really matter?" he asked, quietly.

John felt himself get angry, and this time he couldn't just leave. "Oh, for fuck's sake, of course it matters. It's the most important ... you are the most important ..." he stopped, inhaling deeply to keep himself from breaking down.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "Don't be angry with me."

Defeated, John let go of him and pushed himself up until he could kneel. "I'm not ... angry with you. I'm angry with the man who dragged you into this place where all you cared about was the game and who would win it. I'm angry at him because no matter if he's dead or alive, he still hurts us. It's as if he doesn't really go away, even now. Especially now! And I'm scared; I'm so very scared of what will happen now." He ran his hand over his face, trying to calm down. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." There wasn't really anything else he could say, and he felt awful for it. He wanted to be there for Sherlock. He wanted to be the one who could hold him and tell him that things would be alright; that they were alright now. But it wouldn't be the truth. Moriarty's death would leave a hole in Sherlock's life, and John was painfully aware that he wouldn't be able to fill it.

Sherlock didn't reply. He watched him, calmly, dissecting his words and his thoughts, drawing conclusions and weighing his options.

After a long time of looking at each other, Sherlock took John's hand in his, intertwining their fingers. "You're enough," he simply said, looking a little surprised at his own words.

"What?" John's heart was beating so hard he was sure Sherlock could hear it.

"You're enough. I needed him. I really did. He was novel and he posed a challenge, but once you knew ... once you realised. He had to go."

"So, you are relieved?"

"Yes."

"And you are not upset that he won't be there to challenge you."

"I'm not upset, no. Disappointed, yes."

"And it's not going to affect ... us?"

"I can't promise you that, but I can promise you that I don't feel any different about you."

"You love me?" John swallowed down his tears.

"I told ... John, of course I do. And I need you. I've always needed you."

"I need you, too."

"And you hate me?" Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, sounding entirely serious.

"Yes, I hate you. Bloody idiot." The tears on John's face were wiped away by long slender fingers.

"Wash me and take me to bed?"

"Lazy bastard," John sniffed and leaned down to kiss him. Sherlock, however, didn't let him go and pulled him down again, wrapping his legs around his hips, forcing their bodies together. Somehow, John was relieved to find him soft against his stomach. For the first time, he let himself hope that maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

For a while, they remained like this, but eventually John moved to sit up again and started to wash Sherlock. He used a wash cloth and worked efficiently and fast, making sure to tickle Sherlock lightly every now and then, his heart fluttering at every sigh and smile he received. Eventually, Sherlock was scrubbed clean, his skin reddened by the heat and John's treatment and they both rose and stepped out of the bathtub.

Sherlock seemed much more stable than he had before, but he stood there dripping anyway, waiting for John to also towel him off. He tried to be just as efficient as he had been in the bath, but when Sherlock raised both of his arms behind his head and waited for him to finish, John couldn't help but kneel down behind him, and, as he dried off his legs, press a kiss just below his arse onto his thigh. He watched as goose bumps rose on his skin. For a moment he contemplated just letting it go, but then he noticed that Sherlock was holding his breath and he simply couldn't leave him hanging like this.

He dropped the towel and placed his hands on Sherlock's ankles, drawing upwards along his calves, the hollow of his knees and over his thighs until he reached his buttocks. His thumbs pushed a little further between his legs and he could feel that Sherlock was shaking just a tiny bit. When he pushed his hands higher up and squeezed, Sherlock's breath hitched and he took a step forward, unable to stand still. With a grin, John planted a kiss on his right buttock and then stood up, running his index finger from Sherlock's neck all the way along his spine down to his tail bone. Sherlock leaned back into him, and John wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly. "Come on, let me take you to bed, even though it's barely four o'clock."

Sherlock nodded and then slowly moved into the bedroom. He climbed onto the bed, but avoided looking at the photographs which still lay at the foot of the bed. John inhaled deeply and moved to pick them up. "You sure you don't want to see them?"

Sherlock nodded. "He's gone."

John shoved them back into the envelope and dropped it in the bin under the table. Then, feeling the urge to shake off the strange feeling of something being out of place, he took three quick steps toward the bed and jumped on it, crawling towards Sherlock and placing his head on his stomach. "You have a very nice stomach," he said quietly, feeling the intake of breath before he heard Sherlock chuckle.

"I thought you said I'm too thin?" he remarked, placing one hand on John's head.

"You are," John simply said and kissed the skin underneath him.

"Come here," Sherlock said softly, touching John's neck carefully while his other hand gently pulled at John's arm.

John moved up until he could place his face against Sherlock's chest, listening to his steady heart beat. Sherlock wasn't in shock, he realised relieved. His vitals were within normal range.

"Sherlock?" John asked, not really wanting to return to the topic but unable to help himself.

"Yes, John?"

"Thank you," he said, closing his eyes against the sound of life underneath him.

"Oh John." Sherlock pulled John up and closer to him until he could press his face against his shoulder. John wrapped himself around him protectively, their legs tangled. Breathing together and simply feeling each other's presence – and John found that he wasn't all that angry anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major character death


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

"Do you want to go back to London?" John asked after what seemed like an hour of silence.

"No," Sherlock answered quietly. "We're not going back until you have recovered."

John raised his head to look at Sherlock. "Recovered?"

Sherlock sighed and turned onto his back.

"Yes. In case you have forgotten, you were supposed to stay in bed after your little run in with the lift shaft? And I dragged you out again long before I had any right to do so; and whereas all of that led to a rather unexpected solution to the problem, you still need some rest and some time away from everything."

John smiled, thinking again that his therapist would have asked him to get away from everything, but most importantly from Sherlock. "I think I might be addicted," he stated, huffing out a laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said disdainfully, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"But it's true, I'm showing all the signs," John argued, kissing Sherlock's shoulder.

"Really, John, you clearly have never been addicted to anything. You wouldn't know ..."

"Oh, I forgot, you're the expert," John frowned down on Sherlock.

Sherlock's right eyebrow moved up just the slightest bit, as if challenging John to elaborate.

With a sigh, John rested his head on Sherlock's chest like he had earlier, listening to his heartbeat. "I always feel more alive with you. I also feel reassured, which is very strange, considering how very stupid you are sometimes."

Sherlock huffed, but John ignored him. "Therefore, you are clearly not good for me; at least not in the traditional meaning of good. You make me do the strangest things, dangerous things, without ever second guessing myself. You control me just by being you. You make me happy and giddy and sometimes I feel a bit high. You make me forget everyone else. You ..."

"John," Sherlock interrupted him, “please stop!"

"What?" He looked up and saw Sherlock look up to him with a pained expression and his heart sank a bit. "Sherlock, I'm joking," he tried to clarify, but it was obvious that Sherlock didn't believe him.

"I don't want to be bad for you," Sherlock said quietly. "I know that I am, but I don't want to. Tell me how I can stop."

John inhaled deeply and pushed himself up until he lay on top of Sherlock. "No."

"But ..."

"I don't want you to be different. We've been over this, remember?"

Sherlock scowled but kept his mouth shut.

"I am addicted to you, to you and what you stand for. I love being able to get so much out of that addiction," he smiled sheepishly, which seemed to irritate Sherlock immensely. "I'm loving it. And you know what the best part is? The best part is that I can have you all the time and as much of you as I want. And there's no threat of an overdose. You must be the safest drug out there, well …" he stopped and chuckled. "At least the most fun and definitely the most beautiful." He grinned and kissed his lips. Just as Sherlock wanted to say something, he shut him up rather effectively by using his opportunity to push his tongue into Sherlock's mouth as soon as he opened it.

"Side effects include extreme longing for the next dose, occasionally increased heart rate, soiled sheets and the rather irritating need to attach my hands to your arse."

That had Sherlock grinning, and when John started to wriggle his hands under Sherlock in order to show him exactly of what he was speaking, he chuckled and relaxed.

"Alright. I think I can live with that."

John giggled and kissed him again. "Now, what did you say earlier about that score?"

A deep sigh from Sherlock made John laugh.

"You lazy, gorgeous human being."

"This is not helping," Sherlock grinned and stretched his neck, obviously aware of how badly John would want to kiss and suck right there. And of course John couldn't let this chance pass. With a small hum he attached himself to Sherlock's throat, sucking lightly, then biting down, feeling Sherlock move against him. And then he did what he had wanted to do for a long time; he sucked on the small mole right under Sherlock's chin, flicking his tongue over it while he pushed his hips down. He could feel Sherlock grow aroused and it made him suck harder.

"John," Sherlock eventually groaned, pushing his hips up against John's body. "I thought that I was going to be the one to make you ..." he bit his lip as John left his throat to look at him.

"Yes?" He asked breathlessly.

Sherlock remained quiet, and John couldn't help himself. He feared he was going to burst if he kept it in any longer. "Sherlock, I love you. I love you like this. Shy and adorable and so unbelievably sweet. God, I can't believe that you can be like this. I just want to love you and never let you out of bed again." He kissed him, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't start taking the piss because of his little vocal outburst about his feelings for him. Instead, Sherlock took his face into his hands and started to kiss him back until there were only lips and teeth and tongues trying desperately to win a fight which was already lost. They were both completely hard now, pushing against each other, unable to keep still.

John came first, moaning into Sherlock's mouth, his eyes squeezed shut. He was breathing heavily, unable to keep kissing Sherlock, who now started to move faster than before. "Touch me," he grunted eventually, pushing at John's shoulders to lift him off.

He took a moment to regain control over his hands which had been clutching at Sherlock's shoulders, fingernails leaving marks on marble skin, but then he rolled off of Sherlock and started to stroke him. John had no idea why Sherlock hadn't come yet, considering how very easy it usually was to set him off, but when he looked at his face he could see him fight. And then he lost that fight. Eyes wide, his lower lip between his teeth, Sherlock came almost silently, but hard and forceful. For a long time he just lay there, his chest heaving with every breath and when he finally closed his eyes, his entire body shook with aftershocks.

"Do you think we should open that whisky?" he eventually asked with a crooked smile. "I feel like getting drunk today."

John chuckled and kissed him. "That was the point."

"Good, now clean me off." Sherlock pointed vaguely at his stomach.

For a few seconds John just stared at him, but then he laughed and threw himself on Sherlock, making damn sure that no cleaning would happen anytime soon.

"God, I feel like I'm eighteen again," he whispered against Sherlock's skin after they finally stopped kissing. His lips were burning and his stomach was a bit sore, not to speak of his arse.

"Did you sleep with a lot of women back then?" Sherlock asked, his fingers tapping gently against the nape of John's neck. "I mean, you must have already been gorgeous back then." John blushed at the compliment and stroked Sherlock's hip with his thumb. The scar would stay, it was obvious now. John wondered whether Sherlock would do something to it if it threatened to become invisible.

"Not that many, no. But I was horny all the time," he giggled, feeling silly to be talking about this. "And there was this girl. God, she kept me waiting. It was driving me crazy, but I waited."

"And your left hand got a good workout," Sherlock commented drily.

"Obviously," John said, his giggles turning into laughter. "But I never saw this coming," he lowered his hand and pulled Sherlock's right leg up so he could squeeze his arse. "I think I have developed a Pavlovian reflex to quite a lot of things you do. They all lead to me wanting you. Badly."

Sherlock chuckled. "That's a theory for which you do not have efficient proof. I think some more testing will be necessary."

John lifted his head, looking slightly alarmed now. "Not in public," he said, trying to sound threatening. Sadly it sounded much more like a challenge.

Sherlock simply grinned. "There was also another hypothesis which needed proving."

"Was there?" John wasn't sure whether he should actually ask about it.

"You neck," Sherlock simply said, scraping his fingernails gently along John's spine. Goosebumps spread over his skin like a wildfire.

"Oh Jesus," he murmured. "I'm not sure I'll survive this."

"Alright, we’ll save that one for later then," Sherlock lifted his hand and stretched. "Let's have some lunch."

"Room service?"

"Yes, but you should really clean me up before getting someone in here."

John pushed himself up, ignoring Sherlock. He went to the bathroom and emerged wearing the bathrobe. Then he opened the windows, conscious that the room smelled of sex. "Feel free to let it all dry again," John said with a half smile.

"Jo-hon," Sherlock said, not moving an inch. "Come on, I'm not ready to move yet."

John smiled sweetly at him and dialled the number for room service. "Hello, yes, this is room 204. I would like to order your lunch special. Yes, with bread. More tea, yes, tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Lunch special?" Sherlock sounded almost scandalised. "Did you even read the menu?"

"Sherlock, you are seriously in no position to argue with me about anything I do right now."

"John, you just need to get me a towel and I'll ..."

John ignored him as he silently moved to where he had hung up his coat, taking the camera out and switching it on. He figured he'd get at least one good shot before Sherlock would be at his throat. With a grin he turned around and walked to the bed. Just as Sherlock looked somewhat hopeful that he would humour him, John lifted the camera and took a picture. Stunned, Sherlock stared back at him. John didn't lose any time. Keeping his finger on the release, he snapped a series of pictures, capturing the change of Sherlock's expression from dumbfounded to angry to amused to predatory. At the last one John knew he should better retreat, and so he did, stepping back, but keeping his finger where it was. The last few pictures were of Sherlock's chest when he jumped off the bed and forced John against the wall next to the door, trapping the camera between their bodies.

John chuckled against Sherlock's neck. "I don't think we can send any one of these to your mother."

Sherlock cracked and started to giggle as well. Just as he wanted to grab the camera, a knock made him freeze. "Bathroom," John ordered, pushing at Sherlock's chest. "Now!"

Sherlock sighed and dragged himself into the bathroom as if it was the most tedious thing he had ever done. "Impossible," John grinned as he went to open the door.

The lunch special consisted of pasta with salmon and herbs with sauce hollandaise on the side.

John fished a note out of his pocket and closed the door with a relieved sigh. The man who had brought the food had remained completely neutral; neutral to the mess the room was in, to the crumpled sheets and obvious fact that John was wearing a bathrobe in the middle of the day while Sherlock was obviously in the bathroom. "Sherlock?" John called, spreading the food out on the table and sitting down.

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom. He was still wiping at himself with a towel which he dropped into John's lap before he grabbed his second pair of jeans and put on John's jumper and then sat down, too.

"Charming," John commented and started to heave food on their plates. "Are you sure your stomach is fine?" Now that he had calmed down after the multitude of emotions through which he had gone today he finally felt somewhat relaxed and very hungry. Sherlock seemed to feel the same, because he wordlessly started to eat and didn't stop before his plate was empty. John felt a tiny tingle of joy in his heart when Sherlock swiped his index finger over his plate to pick up the last remains of the sauce.

"It's very satisfying to watch you eat," John remarked with a grin, sipping on his tea.

"I know the feeling," Sherlock responded with a small smile. "Should we start drinking now or wait until dinner?"

"I'm sorry what?"

"The whisky. I wouldn't mind starting on it now."

John stared at him. "Why?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he had absolutely no idea what to make of that question.

"Why do you ... never mind. Sure, why not. But your stomach ..."

Sherlock gave him a look that told him to shut up about his stomach. Then he grinned and was suddenly very motivated to move. He jumped up to get the bottle and uncorked it. Then he put it in front of John in a rather challenging manner and leaned back. "Come on," he said, smiling with a gleam in his eyes that made John rather uncomfortable.

"Let me guess, you don't have enough data of me drunk, especially not on scotch," John asked, knowing that there had to be an ulterior motive.

"Precisely."

"And you think getting me drunk now will help you understand me better? I mean, drunk me. Or drunk anybody."

Sherlock smirked, and for a moment John felt a rush of adrenaline through his system. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew it had to do with the fact that Sherlock was being himself right now; alert and focused.

"You can stand in as a representative," he answered, "even though you are not the best possible candidate to represent the general population of England."

"A drunk Englishman, then," John grinned.

"No, a drunk idiot of an Englishman," Sherlock answered, sounding far too serious.

"You're being harsh."

"I'm being truthful," Sherlock replied, sitting up a little straighter.

"So where are you, then, in all of this?"

"Oh, I'm quite the idiot when I drink," Sherlock's mask cracked and gave way to a fond smile. "I just never let anyone see me when I'm impaired."

"Impaired, huh?" John took the bottle and wanted to take a swig, but stopped. "We need proper glasses for this."

Sherlock looked at him calmly, but then he got up and was out of the door in a second.

A few minutes after Sherlock had rushed out of the room he was back with two tumblers and a wide grin on his face.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing of importance," Sherlock replied, but he couldn't keep himself from grinning.

"Sherlock?" John sat back, looking at him like he would at a petulant child. He knew he wore that look like a second skin by now, and Sherlock still hadn't found a way to ignore it. He drummed his fingers against his chin, looking at John from under his eyelashes. But John was not impressed. At least he was hoping that Sherlock couldn't see how much he wanted to just pull him over the table and kiss that expression off his face. But apparently he managed to be quite convincing, staring Sherlock down for a change.

"It's just that ..."

"Go on."

"The manager of the hotel was downstairs and he congratulated the newlyweds." He blushed; he actually blushed and John knew his expression was beyond his control now. "He meant us."

"Nothing of importance?" John tried to hide his giddiness under a frown for a moment before a small smile broke through. This wasn't all that bad. If Sherlock had trouble talking about it, it meant that he was unable to deal with it like he did with any other rational data that he was confronted with. This was something which touched him and therefore he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. And he had blushed at the notion that he and John were considered a married couple. And, knowing Sherlock, the reason for the blush was in no way connected to the fact that they had most likely been overheard having sex.

Sherlock remained quiet, knowing that his choice of words had been a bit not good. But John wasn't sure what to do now either. He didn't know whether Sherlock was actually concerned with marriage at all, but the fact that they were on non-honeymoon after having promised each other to spend the rest of their lives with each other, it suddenly didn't seem as absurd an idea as it previously had.

"Do you want to get married?" John heard himself say, unsure whether it was what he really wanted.

"Aren't we?"

John laughed and reached out his hand over the table and Sherlock took it and gently squeezed. "I suppose. We've been behaving like a married couple pretty much since we moved in together, so I guess that must count for something."

"Do you want a ring?"

John was surprised that Sherlock wasn't done with the topic after they had just established where they stood. "God, no, people might talk," he said with a grin. "And I believe that if anyone wants proof that we are together, they'll just have to look for the love bites which I believe are never going to go away again."

"Oh John,"

"What?" John withdrew his hand and filled their glasses.

"I think the irrationality approach is working out for us."

John laughed and pushed Sherlock's glass over to him. "It's perfectly logical. Cheers, hubby," he smiled, and despite Sherlock's rather indignant look at the pet name he picked up his drink and they clinked glasses and drank.

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of part four in my series. Part five will be coming soon, but it'll be a very short one, consisting only of a handful of chapters which then concludes The Eye of the Beholder Series or Book I. Book II is in the works, but it'll be a while until that gets posted. Be patient, I'm extremely busy :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and special thanks to those to left kudos and super special thanks and cookies to the few lovely people who left comments, because comments = love, motivation and essential for writing/writers! Without feedback we paddle in a sea without land in sight and have no idea where we're going. We're having fun paddling, sure, but...you get the drift. So thank you! x


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